“So, you want to toilet paper their tree?” Swinging his feet from his position as co-pilot on the school’s rocket jungle gym, Chet studied the ground below.

“It’ll be the best! You know that he never leaves the house, and she’ll blow her top! KAPOW!” Seeing Chet unconvinced of his plans, Simon used the words that always worked. “Simon says ‘we must paper the tree, in the true spirit of Hallowe’en.’”

“Why do you hate her so much?”

The question surprised Simon, and he swung over the end of the rocket ship’s nose, landing on the thinning grass with a thud.

“I think she’s a witch.” Looking up into the face of his friend, Simon shrugged. “She keeps her husband locked up in the basement, and I’ve heard her talking to people that aren’t there. I mean, it’s like she’s talking on the phone, but she ain’t got no phone.”

“That means she’s just crazy, not a witch. ‘Sides, I heard my mom talking to a neighbour about the old man. He’s sick or something and doesn’t want to leave the house. She takes care of him.”

Simon shook his head, sending golden locks of hair in all directions. “No, she’s a witch. Do you remember that really big dog from the house next to theirs?”

Chet nodded his head. “Oh, yeah. ‘King’.” He shuddered, thinking ‘Why did you think I walked home from school on the opposite side of the street for a whole year?’ He could still see the German shepherd lunging for the fence, the silver and red name pendant swinging from around its collar to slap against the chain link.

“Well, King always watched the house for the old lady. I swear on my Daisy air rifle that his hair stood on end when he saw her. It was creepy.” Simon gazed across the playground, past red rusted swings and bright blue teeter totters, picturing the snarling dog as it faced down the woman across a half inch of steel mesh. “Then one day, the dog was gone, missing, and no one knew what happened to it.”

“It ran away, stupid.” Chet climbed down and sat on the grass, leaning back against the cool metal bars. “Everyone knows that.”

“No, it didn’t.” Standing at Chet’s feet, Simon cast a shadow over the younger boy. “The night before it disappeared, I saw her at the fence, the dog on the other side barking at her. It was going crazy. Remember ‘Old Yeller’? How it got all sick and stuff? The dog was like that, but worse, foaming and biting at the air.”

“Rabid. They called it rabid.” Chet looked up, seeing only a yellow halo of hair around the shadowed face. Old Yeller had yellow hair too.

“Yeah, only I don’t think it was rabid, I think it was scared. Real scared. She was whispering to it, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying.” Squatting to sit on his haunches, Simon reached down and played with his shoelaces, twisting them in his hands. “All of a sudden, it wasn’t barking anymore. She turned around, went into the house, and that was it. No more dog.”

Chet stared at his friend, waiting for the blue eyes to look into his brown. He wanted to shake the uneasy feeling that had settled over him.

“You think she cast a spell or something?” Leaning forward, Chet put the palm of his right hand on Simon’s shoulder and pushed. “There are no such things as witches and ghosts. You are a total goof.”

Toppled over on his back, Simon giggled. “Simon says ‘you’re the goof’. And she put a spell on that dog, made him go away.”

Laughing, Chet lay on the grass next to his friend. “You better watch it, or she’s gonna put a spell on you.”

“Like I don’t have it bad enough with you as my friend.” Rolling to the side, Simon just missed the punch Chet threw at his arm. “’Sides, after tonight, she’ll be after both of us.”

Lying on their backs staring up at the clear October sky, both boys let their laughter die away. The uneasy feeling again settled over them, disturbing a perfect autumn afternoon.

Over the sound of the wind making its way through the blades of grass, Chet heard a faint whispering to his left. Turning his head, he saw Simon, eyes closed, his lips barely moving. Straining, Chet could barely make out the words.

“Simon says ‘that old lady’s a witch...’”

Suppressing a shudder, Chet looked back up at the sky. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t block out that quiet voice.

“Hey, Chet. You all right, pal?” Cap clapped Chet on the back, startling him out of his revere.

“Uh, yeah Cap, sorry ‘bout that.” Chet cleared his throat, feeling suddenly uncomfortable under everyone’s scrutiny. “Any of that coffee left? Talking makes me thirsty.”

Mike set a fresh cup in front of Chet as Roy tapped Johnny on the arm, forestalling any snide remark the paramedic might have had at the ready. Roy could see how unnerved Chet had just become, and Johnny’s insults wouldn’t help.

“So, what was Simon saying?” Marco watched Chet take a deep swallow of the coffee, impatient for him to resume the story.

Chet wrapped his hands around the hot mug, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Simon used to say a lot of things. Like that old game: Simon Says. We’d get into so much trouble when we used to play that, daring each other until we got hauled in front of our parents for doing something we shouldn’t have. That’s how we ended up toilet papering her tree that night. Because Simon said.”

“But what about what Simon said about the old lady?” Marco felt as if he were pulling teeth, instead of getting a good scare on Hallowe’en.

’Simon says that old lady is a witch. She talks to ghosts, and puts curses on little kids. That’s what I say.’

Chet could almost hear that sing-song voice inside his head, the chant repeating over and over again. “Simon said she was a witch, and that she talked to ghosts. That she was going to put a curse on us.”

The quiet that had settled in the common room was broken by a quick bark of laughter.

“Now I know you’re pulling our legs!” Johnny grinned as he leaned forward into the table, resting his elbows on the cool surface. “You want us to believe that the woman was a witch? A real witch?”

Johnny’s grin slipped from his face as he saw the look in Chet’s eyes, and the disapproving stares he was getting from Marco and Mike. Turning, he saw Roy was fidgeting with his pen, spinning it across the knuckle of his thumb and letting it come to rest in his fingers. The older paramedic’s face neither confirmed nor denied any belief in what he had just heard.

“Oh, give me a break. There’s no such thing as witches or ghosts.” Johnny pushed back strands of sweat dampened hair from his face and turned to the station’s pillar of reason. “Cap, you don’t believe any of this stuff, do you?”

Realizing all eyes rested on him, Cap cleared his throat, standing a little straighter at the counter, coffee mug in one hand, coffeepot in the other.

“I, ummm, well...” Looking around the room, Cap came to a decisive conclusion, waving the mug in emphasis. “Maybe.”

“Well, I believe in lots of things, and one of them is hearing the rest of the story.” Marco waved at Chet to go on.

“What I want to know,” Mike added, “is what costumes did you decide on?”

Smiling, with a twinkle in his eye, Chet again delved into his youth. “There begets the age-old question: who is the better cowboy? John Wayne, or Roy Rogers...”

“You are such a goof! No, no, a goof and a butt-head all in one!” Chet settled the gun belt across his hips, swinging his sack of candy over his shoulders as he walked. “Roy Rogers is the all time best cowboy that ever rode the range. Heck, he’s on TV and in the movies!”

“John Wayne could eat Roy Rogers for lunch.” Pillowcase clutched in one hand, six-shooter in the other, Simon strode the sidewalk like he owned it, swaggering like his hero. “John Wayne can out shoot, out ride, and out smart Roy Rogers, with both eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back.”

“There’s no way. Roy has Trigger, and he could take John Wayne while waving to Dale and singing a song!”

“That’s all Roy Rogers could out-do him in--singing.” Digging into his bag, Simon pulled out a candy bar and started to unwrap it. “Simon says there are three rules in life. One: the flying monkeys are the scariest things in the Wizard of Oz, and nobody can tell me different. Two: always sit next to the smartest kid in school and three...”

Chet waited as Simon pushed the whole chocolate bar in his mouth.

“Wee, on ain ets oy odrs nyme nyre.”

“Hunh? Wanna say it in English this time?” Chet stood amazed as Simon chewed and swallowed the entire mouthful.

“I said, three: John Wayne beats Roy Rodgers any time, anywhere.” Screwing up his face, Simon pounded himself on the chest, and let out a loud belch.

Waving his hand in front of his face, Chet laughed. “Oh, yuck. Chocolate breath.”

“Better than dog breath. Do me a favour and brush your teeth once in a while, will ya?” Stopping in front of the Kelly house, brightly lit with pumpkins, Simon said goodbye to his friend. “Remember, 11:00 on the nose by the corner of the witch’s house. I’ll meet you by the hedge on Orchard St, and bring your ammunition.”

Tipping his cowboy hat back on his head, Chet smiled. “I’m all ready saddled up and ready to go.”

“And don’t be late. I don’t want to do this all by myself.”

“If Simon says don’t be late, I won’t. Roy Rogers always keeps his word.” Chet started for the front door.
“Well, he better,” Simon called after him, “or John Wayne’s gonna punch him full of holes.”

Laughing, the boys went home.

“How many did you bring?”

Hidden under the cedar hedges growing on the south side of the house on Orchard Ave, blackened windows even darker in the night, two small forms counted supplies.

Holding up two rolls, one in each hand, Chet smiled. “Two whole rolls.”

“Two? That’s it?” Simon dumped his canvas bag out on the ground and five rolls spilled out. “I got five. Don’t you people keep extra rolls in the house?”

“Hey, what can I say. We’re a busy family.”

“I always knew you were full of something, Chet Kelly, and now I know what.” Simon loaded the toilet paper rolls back into the bag, avoiding the swat coming for his head. “And you have lousy aim. Ow!”

“Shhh.” Chet looked around. “You trying to get us caught or something?”

“Or something.” White teeth glowing in the dark as he grinned, Simon hefted the sack. “Simon says ‘let’s go have some fun’.”

Getting down on all fours, Simon crawled through the hedge, catching his clothes and scratching his hands and face on the branches. Pushing through on the other side, he heaved on the bag, plopping down on his behind as it untangled itself from the hedge.

Scrambling out right behind the sack, his smaller frame making short work of the natural opening, Chet stood, looking down around the backyard. “You know, it would have been easier if we used the front gate.”

Getting to his feet, Simon cuffed Chet in the back of the head. “Smart mouth.” He turned to survey the yard.

The grass was short and dry, crackling under the rubber-soles of their sneakers. Right next to the house was another set of hedges, smaller, but more densely packed, as if they huddled against the brick for protection. Basement windows peered out from between the sets of shrubbery, but in the dark, they could not tell if they were painted black, or if it was the darkness of the depths seeping out.

The old oak tree sat in the centre of the yard, its heavy gnarled branches sagging towards the ground, bent and misshapen by time and circumstance. Leaves littered the ground around the base, hiding the roots twisting around the trunk, as if they had crawled as far away from it as they could before finally burrowing into the earth.

“Hey, Simon. Look at this.” Chet stood off to the side of the house, looking at a gathering of little foot-high figurines.

As he approached, Simon could see at least ten gnomes placed in two straight lines. Each gnome was painted with a different coloured tunic and hood and they all carried little black poles.

“Oh, those are those stupid fishing gnomes. My mom’s got two of them in the front garden. I don’t know why, it’s not like they’re gonna catch anything.” Simon kicked a couple of leaves on the closest gnome, grunting in satisfaction. “They kinda creep me out.”

Looking closer at the ceramic creatures, Chet cocked his head sideways, puzzled. “Simon? Do gnomes usually have little pointy teeth?”

“Hunh?” Bending down to take a better look, Simon could see that the gnomes all had round, pointed teeth, the incisors longer and wider than the rest. Clenched in little clawed fists, each gnome held a sharpened spear, not a fishing pole.

Chet, watching Simon as he stared at the figures, came to his own conclusion. “No, I guess they don’t.”

Stepping back from the gnomes, Simon wiped sweaty palms on the front of his pants. “I told you she’s a witch. No wonder she never gives out candy on Hallowe’en. She’s too busy flying around on her broomstick leading her army of flying monkeys.” He glanced quickly to the sky and the roof of the house, expecting to see the winged creatures.

Walking to the bag and dumping out the toilet paper, Chet picked up a roll and hoofed it at Simon, startling him.

“Goof. I told you there are no such things as witches. Now, you going to help me with this tree, or not. It was your idea, you know.”

Picking up the roll that had smacked him in the head, Simon took one last look at the toothy army of gnomes and joined Chet.

Twenty minutes later, the oak tree looked like it had just marched down a New York city street during a ticker tape parade, where the watchers threw toilet paper, not confetti.

Standing side by side, Simon put his arm around Chet’s shoulders, admiring their handiwork. Several layers, the ragged ends of rolls blowing in the small breeze, bedecked each bow.
“That’s the best looking tree I’ve ever seen.” Raising his arms in the air, Simon bowed down to the tree, making a grand and sweeping gesture with his right arm. “I grant you the name, Toilet-tree.”

Snickering, Chet kicked away one of the empty rolls from his feet. “Goof.”

“Simon says ‘you’re the goof’.”

“No, you’re the goof. And if I don’t get back home pretty soon, I’ll be a grounded friend of a goof.” Bending, Chet picked up the bag, tossing some of the empty cylinders into it. Scanning the ground for errant rolls, he stopped. There was something different in the back yard, and he couldn’t put his finger on it.

Taking another quick look around, he turned to his friend, who still stood admiring the tree. The night had suddenly grown very cold.

“Ummm, Simon? Do you know what happened to the gnomes?”

Chet took a quick breath and surveyed the room. Marco and Mike were straining forward in their chairs, and the Cap stood in the same position he had twenty minutes earlier, coffee mug in one hand, coffeepot in the other. Johnny and Roy sat, reports forgotten, neither of them having noticed when one of the pens had fallen to the floor.

“Madre de Dios!” Making a quick sign of the cross, Marco sank back in his seat.

Taking a sip of his tepid coffee, Chet grimaced, whether at the coffee or the memory, he wasn’t sure.

“Well, keep on going. If you’re going to tell it, at least finish it.” Johnny ran a hand over his face, frustrated at the pause in the action.

“Why, Gage. I thought you didn’t believe in witches and ghosts?”

“I don’t,” Johnny gave Chet his best sneer, “but it’s like having to leave in the middle of a movie. You have to know how it ends, no matter how stupid it is.”

“Or like missing the end of an episode of ‘Adam 12’, right Johnny?” Roy commented.

“Exactly! See, Roy wants to hear the rest, too.” Johnny didn’t notice Roy roll his eyes and throw his own pen in the air.

“All right. All right. I was at the part where we were tossing the toilet paper through the tree, right?”

“Gnomes!” Five voices shouted at him. “The missing gnomes!”

“Right, the missing gnomes. Well, I looked...”

“Ummm, Simon? Do you know what happened to the gnomes?”

“What do you mean, what happened to the gnomes? They’re right over there.” Simon swung around, pointing to the spot where the gnomes had stood at parade rest. Now there was just a patch of leaf covered grass, with ten empty circles where the gnomes once stood.

“This is not funny, Chet. Not funny at all.” Swinging his head about, Simon searched for the colourful little hoods. “Where’d you hide them? Simon says ‘tell me where you hid them’.” Simon’s voice was rising, becoming tinged with hysteria. His words appeared in the night air as little clouded bursts.

“I didn’t move them, honest.”

Simon leveled wide, panicked eyes at Chet. “You swear you didn’t move them?”

“I swear on Roy Rogers and his horse, Trigger. I didn’t touch them.”

Licking dry lips, Simon slowly eased over to where Chet stood, his eyes darting from the house to the hedges to the dark basement windows.

“Do you hear that?” Jerking around, Simon turned back to the tree. A low rumbling noise was coming from under the roots of the old oak.

“Yeah,” Chet whispered, his voice trembling, “and I also found one of the gnomes.” Standing three feet away from him, little pointed teeth showing clearly in its too wide grinning mouth, a yellow hooded gnome stood. It had not been standing there ten seconds earlier.

The rumbling noise transformed into snarling and growling as whatever had been called from the depths got closer to the surface. As the boys looked around the yard, more and more of the gnomes moved out into the open.

A little brown hooded gnome sat at the base of the tree, turned so it could watch the twisted roots of the oak, waiting for its visitor.

The gnomes that wore the red and the black tunics sat on either side of the front gate, guarding it.

Chet, his heart pumping fast enough for two lifetimes, watched as the pink and green gnomes crept out of the hedges by the house, their squat colourful forms reflected in the basement window. The spears were held high in small, clenched fists, the small black button eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

Three gnomes, blue, orange, and purple, took up positions in the hedge by the road, standing at attention as they guarded the perimeter of the property. The tenth gnome stood on the steps of the house, its white hood luminescent as it commanded its troops with practiced ease.

“What are we going to do?” Swinging the bag at the yellow gnome, Chet tried to control his trembling voice and pounding heart. He glanced up quickly at his friend, hoping to see the older boy ready to take charge.

Simon stood, eyes closed, mumbling to himself. Chet could barely make out the words over the growling coming from the old oak tree.

“Simon says ‘there are witches’. Simon says ‘I believe in witches’...”

Chet felt his bowels twist, the gnomes moving in for the attack momentarily forgotten. “Simon?”

There was no response, other than the whispered invocation falling from slack lips. Chet found himself all alone in a fight no one could prepare for, that no one would believe. Taking a deep breath, he tightened his grip on the canvas sack. It was time for Roy Rogers to take the reins and save the ranch.

Feeling a sharp pain in his left foot, Chet cursed, as badly as only a ten year-old could, and turned his attention back to the ground.

The yellow gnome grinned as it pulled his sharpened stick out of the top of Chet’s shoe, leaving tiny droplets of blood along the white laces. Licking the tip of its spear, the gnome snickered.

“Butt-head!” Rearing his injured foot back, Chet kicked the gnome into the air, hearing a satisfying crack as it impacted against a fence post. “That’ll teach you to mess with Chester B. Kelly.”

Grabbing Simon, Chet pulled his friend towards the hedge, the small opening they had crawled through the fastest way out. The orange and blue gnomes moved their positions, blocking the opening with spears raised.

“Simon, you’ve got to help me here. Simon, please.” Shaking his friend’s arm, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises on the budding biceps, Chet tried to rouse his friend.

“Simon says ‘he believes in gnomes’. Simon says ‘there’s no place like gnome’.” A lost little giggle slipped between chants, his eyes unfocused, lips starting to turn blue with the cold.

The orange gnome rushed the boys, throwing its spear as it lunged for their legs. Simon’s distracted mumbling stopped as the tip of the spear grazed his forehead, tearing a three-inch gash from his hairline to his right temple.

“GET LOST!” Wrapping the bag around his hand, Chet reached down and grabbed the orange gnome by its neck, the material protecting his flesh from tiny talons clawing for a hold. Catching a reflected streak of emerald in the basement window as the green gnome dashed towards them, Chet lobbed the struggling creature in his hand at its companion, knocking both back into the shrubs by the house.

“What?” Hand reaching up to wipe at the blood trickling down his head, Simon’s glazed eyes wandered the yard, registering the chaos.

“Simon!” Chet grabbed the hood of the purple gnome before it could bite into Simon’s leg. Swinging it underhand, he threw it over the hedge by the road, where it vanished in mid air. “How ’bout John Wayne joining the fight, hunh? Roy Rogers’ kicking butt, here.”

Blue eyes finally focusing, Simon pulled himself out of Chet’s grasp. “John Wayne never runs from a fight.” Trying to settle his nerves, he took a shaky breath, muttering to himself, “I just wish he was here.” Kicking aside two gnomes, they headed for the cedar hedge.

Simon, on hands and knees, ready to crawl through the small opening as Chet protected his back, stopped just before he put his head into the branches.

Staring at him, teeth bared, small spear raised, stood the white gnome.

“Hurry up.” Seeing the brown gnome start to jump up and down on the roots of the oak, Chet pushed against Simon, trying to force him through the hole.

Dirt started to gusher up from the base of the tree, growling and barking noises echoing into the night as the beast clawed it’s way out. The brown gnome turned its beady black eyes to Chet and smiled. Its pet had arrived.

A small keening sound escaping his tight throat, Chet stepped back and tripped over Simon’s legs, landing on the blue gnome, squashing it flat.

Hearing the commotion behind him, Simon glanced back at the tree.

The brown gnome stood on the roots, holding a leash that attached to a big black leather collar. On that collar, the name ‘King’ hung, shining in silver and red. The German shepherd bared its teeth, dirt and foam dripping from the curled lips.

“Shit.” Never a word spoken so quietly had ever had that much of an effect.

Grabbing the white gnome by its feet, Simon flung it back over his shoulder as he dove into the hedge, Chet so closely behind him that he could feel his breath on his neck.

The click click click of claws jumping across wood and the rising snarl spurred them on.

Falling out onto the sidewalk, Simon spun and grabbed for Chet. Head and shoulders diving through the shrubbery, Chet suddenly stopped.

“Simon! King’s got my foot!”

Pulling at his friend, Simon played tug of war with a devil dog, gaining inches only to lose them again.

“You’ve got to help me.” Panting, Simon felt his grip on Chet slipping. “Can you kick it or something?”

Feet scissoring in the hedge, Chet emerged with a great whump as his sneaker slipped off his foot. He fell headfirst into Simon and they rolled out onto the street.

Watching the hedge for any movement, the boys lay in the lane, gasping for breath, too drained to move.

“They’re...they’re not coming...out.” Simon peered into the hedge; he could have sworn he saw a bunch of small, shining eyes looking at them.

“I don’t think they can.” Chet stood, balanced on one shoe and one sock. “When I threw one of them over the hedge, it just disappeared.” Looking at his mismatched feet, Chet frowned. “I’m gonna hear about this tomorrow. These were new shoes.”

Hands shaking as he used the hem of his shirt to swipe at the blood on his forehead, Simon glared at his friend. “You mean, we just fought an army of gnomes and a dead dog that dug itself out of where ever the old witch sent it, and all you can think about is your stupid shoes?”

Shrugging, Chet stared at his sock. His big toe stuck out of a hole the dog had ripped in it, dirt and saliva coating the top of the once white sock. Wiggling his toes, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “You’ve never seen my mom angry before, have you?”

The silence was broken as Simon snorted then let out a whole-hearted laugh. “You are a goof!”

“You’re the goof.” Chet looked up and smiled at his friend. “You know you’re right.”

“I know.” Simon frowned. “About what?”

“About what Simon says. ‘Simon says the old lady’s a witch’.” His expression turning thoughtful, Chet nodded his head. “I believe in ghosts and I believe in witches, and from now on, I’ll believe what Simon says.”

“You should have listened to him from the start.”

Both boys jumped, searching for the owner of the voice.

“I hope my little friends didn’t hurt you too much. Sometimes they get carried away.” Staring down at them from the hedge, the old lady stood, head and shoulders leaning over the top to see their sorry state. “’Simon says there are witches.’ Well, my young friends, there’s much more than witches out there. Believe. Believe in it all. Don’t make me teach you this lesson again.”

Glancing quickly at each other, the two friends turned on their heels and ran off down the street. At the end of the second block, they stopped, tired from their fight and their flight.

Turning to look back, Simon tapped Chet on the shoulder, pointing at the house. “Chet, do you know how high that hedge is?”

Bent over, with hands on knees struggling for breath, Chet raised his head to look. “I don’t know, ten feet maybe?”

“Ten feet maybe. Chet, she was standing on the other side looking down and talking to us.”

Chet looked from the hedge to Simon. His friend stared back towards the house, a puzzled expression on his face.

“You know what else, Chet? There’s no toilet paper hanging from the tree anymore. Simon says ‘none at all’.”

Chet finished his story and sat looking at the empty cup in his hands. Taking a deep breath and putting a smile on his face, he looked up into the faces of his friends. Good friends.

‘Simon says you can really kick butt, especially the spooky kind. Watch out for Chet, he’s the phantom killer. Chet, the phantom killer. Chet, the phantom...’

A small chuckle escaped his upturned lips as he looked across at the two paramedics, both vying for elbowroom as they leaned forward on the table. Even sixteen years later, the friendly competition between Roy and John was still going on, but now with DeSoto and Gage, not Rogers and Wayne.

“Well, that’s my story. The scariest Hallowe’en I’ve ever had. Can anyone top that?”

The spell broken, the men of 51 stirred.

“No? No one wants to try to top the master, hunh?” Chet stretched in his chair, feeling the damp shirt peel away from his back at the welcome movement. Seeing it was time to lighten the mood, he decided to do some Gage baiting. “Not even you, Gage? Come on, I’ve seen some of the women that agreed to go out with you. There’s got to be a horror story in there someplace.”

“Very funny, Chet. I don’t...” Johnny broke off at the sound of the tones, reports and retorts forgotten as he rushed by Chet on the way to the squad.

“Squad 51. Child stuck in pumpkin. St. Clair Public School. Time out 12:25.”

“And so it starts.” Smiling at his small victory, Chet sauntered over to the doorway to watch as the squad pulled out. “I love Hallowe’en.”

“So,” Roy plunged both hands in the hot soapy water, feeling around for more dishes, “there I was, a screaming six year old squirming in my arms, his head and shoulders jammed inside a huge plastic pumpkin, and Johnny’s trying to pick up his teacher.”

“I was not picking her up!” Johnny pulled up short on his way out of the room, the cleaning bucket squeaking to a halt just outside the door. “She was asking me questions about the rescue.”

“Sure Johnny,” Chet plucked another plate from the dish rack, “and I bet the teacher was sixty with yellow dentures and bad breath, right?”

“No, she was...” Realizing Chet was baiting him, Johnny stopped, snarling. “You’re just jealous the only thing that you pick up on calls are hoses.”

“Oooh, funny, Gage. I’m going to have to write that one up for the fireman’s journal, under ‘Pathetic Comeback Lines for Junior Paramedics’.”

“Why, I...” Pulling the mop out of the bucket, Johnny headed towards Chet, the wet business end of the mop leaving a messy trail across the kitchen floor.

“I hope you were planning on doing the dorm after you’ve finished up with Chet.” Captain Stanley stepped over the cleaning bucket and entered the common room, pointing a thumb back out towards the bay when he got Johnny’s attention.

“Yeah, Cap,” Johnny lowered the mop, splashing some water on Chet’s shoes as it hit the floor. “I’m doing it right now.”

“Squad 51. Unknown injury, 654 Orchard Ave, cross street Larch. Time out 15:10.”

Handing the mop handle to Chet, Johnny shrugged and smiled at the Cap as they ran into the bay.

After watching the squad pull out on the call, Cap wandered back into the kitchen, where the stocky firefighter still stood, a strange expression on his face, mop in hand. “Chet, how about cleaning up the mess in here, huh? You’re dripping all over the floor.”

“But, Cap!” Seeing the stern look on the Captain’s face, Chet grumbled to himself as he mopped the floor. The fact that the address on that last call had tickled a part of his memory was lost as he silently cursed a certain paramedic.

Pulling up in front of an imposing three-story home, John Gage and Roy DeSoto gathered their equipment together quickly and efficiently in a manner brought on by experience.

Turning, they approached the gated yard, noticing a small crowd starting to gather on the street. The murmurs from the growing mass reached the ears of the two paramedics.

Eyeing the people as they reached the gate, Johnny slipped the biophone under his arm, disengaging the latch. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the villagers seem a little restless.”

Using his foot to prop open the gate while Johnny redistributed his load, Roy nodded his head. “Well, if I see any torches coming around the corner, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Swinging the gate wide to allow Roy to go down the walkway first, Johnny didn't notice when he knocked over a small red garden gnome standing by the front yard entrance.

Climbing the five steps up to the front porch, Roy saw that the heavy wooden door had no doorbell, just a wrought iron knocker. Lifting the heavy ring, he let it fall back to rest against the wall plate, the clang of the metal sharp and painful in the small area.

Looking back at his partner coming up the path, Roy noticed Johnny staring at the front of the house, eyes moving from room to room. “Something wrong?”

“No, I just couldn’t help noticing that I can’t see in the windows.” Reaching around Roy, Johnny tried the doorknocker again.


“Hello. This is the L.A. County Fire Department.” Roy rapped his knuckles on the dark wood. “We got a call from this address. Is anyone here?”

“I’ll see if there’s a backdoor.” Johnny started down the steps, surprised at the twenty or so people standing just outside the gate, watching their every move.

“Johnny.”

Turning back, Johnny heard what his partner had; the sound of a lock sliding back, and the creak of the door as it swung inward. A woman in her mid-seventies stood in the entrance, gray hair cut short to frame her thin face, dark brown eyes peering out from glasses rimmed in silver wire. Studying their faces, the woman nodded, stepping back from the door.

“Yes, you are the gentlemen I called. My husband is dying. I can do nothing for him, now.” Giving them room to enter, she closed the door on the oppressive heat outside. The inside of the house was cool and dark, lit only by two small lamps nestled on a small table in the entranceway. “Follow me. He is in our room at the top of the stairs.”

Treading on the thick wool carpet that ran from the entryway to the top of the stairs, they could not hear their own footfalls, but from above, the sound of distressed breathing carried through the house, echoing through three dark empty floors.

“I’m Roy DeSoto, and that’s my partner, John Gage.” Roy looked to the woman beside him on the stairs.

Reaching the second floor, the woman stopped and addressed the men. “Eldritch. My name is Marie Eldritch, and my husband’s name is Michael.”

Distracted by a sudden vocal cord-rending cough from the bedroom, Johnny’s foot slid off the cushioned treads, the muffled thud reverberating down the stairs as he stepped heavily to keep his balance. “Sorry.”

Looking at the dark haired paramedic, the woman smiled. “This way, gentlemen.” Entering a dark room to the left of the stairs, the woman reached out her right hand and pressed a switch on the wall.

The light from the illuminated chandelier filled the room with small prisms of colour, red, yellow and blue fairy-like reflections danced on the walls as the crystals swayed from the ceiling.

On the bed, a blue sheet draped across his gaunt frame, lay a man, his chest rising and falling with each harsh breath, eyes open and head turned to stare at the room’s new occupants.

Rushing to the side of the bed, placing equipment within reach, Johnny and Roy began assessing the patient.

“I’m going to go get the oxygen from the squad, and call for an ambulance.” Handing the biophone over to Roy, Johnny hurried out of the room and down the stairs.

Pulling open the gate, Johnny parted the crowd to get to the squad. Radioing in for an ambulance, he noticed a man leaning against the driver side door, watching as Johnny made the call.

“Is it her?” Crossing in front of the cab, he followed Johnny as he got the oxygen.

Ignoring the man, Johnny lifted the tank from the squad, closing the compartment as he turned to leave. A hand grabbed his arm, stopping him from entering the gate.

“Is it her?” The man let his hand slip from Johnny’s arm, his blue eyes staring at the house.

“No.” Johnny pushed through the gate, only to be stopped again by the same hand.

“She’s evil. A witch, so watch yourself in there.” The crowd around the man echoed his sentiments, the murmuring growing louder as they tried to tell the paramedic what the woman could do.

“She poisoned the soil...”

“..all of them gone..”

“..he has nightmares so bad..”

“..put a curse on my..”

Tugging his arm out of the sweaty vise-like grip, Johnny turned to the crowd. “I don’t care what you may or may not think, but I have a job to do, and I’m going to do it.” Focusing on the man standing on the threshold of the property, Johnny noticed a very faint scar pulsing on the man’s right temple. “You believe what you want to believe, but I don’t believe in ghosts or witches. That stuff’s for kids.”

Sprinting back up and into the front door, Johnny heard the man calling after him, the words cutting off as the door slammed shut.
“Simon says ‘she’s a witch...’”

Picking up the drug box and biophone as the ambulance attendants carried the stretcher down the stairs with help from his partner, Johnny waited on the landing for the way to clear.

“I heard you outside.”

Startled by the quiet voice, Johnny fumbled with the heavy red case, dropping the biophone on his foot.

“What?” Opening the case to see if there was any damage, Johnny glanced at Mrs. Eldritch.

“I heard you outside, with those people. You said you didn’t believe in witches and ghosts. Is that true?”

Satisfied both the equipment and his foot were fine, Johnny started down the stairs. “I think some people believe in things like that, but I don’t. Why?” And how did you hear me? he thought. You were with Roy the entire time.

“I want you to believe. Not just in those things, but in all that is possible and impossible.” Laying her hand lightly on Johnny’s arm, he felt a mild electric current pass between them. “Some people just know, but others, they cannot learn, not without their worlds crashing down around them. You are not a believer, but I don’t think you need fear for your world.”

Feeling her hand tighten on his arm, Johnny stopped on the threshold, his entire body humming like a live wire under her touch. Roy walked on ahead of him, helping the attendants maneuver the stretcher over the rough cobblestone walkway.

“There is more.” Marie Eldritch waited until the dark wary eyes met her own. “My world exists beyond what you see and I want you to know that that world exists. Some call me a witch, I know, but they see only what they want to see. There is good and evil in all of us. I have done great good, but I have also done great evil. I use what means I find necessary to open the minds of those I touch. To believe that there is more than the tangible, more than what exists on this plane.”

As her hand left his forearm, Johnny could still feel the slight tingle as the hairs on his arms lay back down. Feeling ill at ease with the intense scrutiny he was under, he looked away, clearing his throat. “I have to go.” Hurrying down the walkway after Roy and the stretcher, Johnny stopped and turned back to Mrs. Eldritch. “We’re taking him to Rampart General Hospital...”

“I know where you’re taking him, but I have all ready said my good-byes.” She stepped back from the entrance, her small frame lost in the dim interior. “My husband Michael always said that it is the wise man who believes without proof, and the fool who demands it.” The woman’s final words were punctuated with a bang as the heavy door fell closed.

Taking one last look at the house, the windows dark and the hedges overgrown, Johnny pivoted on his heel and hurried off the property. If he hadn’t known better, he would think that this was Chet’s old witch—but there were no such things as witches.

Sidling up behind Roy at the ambulance, Johnny slipped the drug box and biophone on the bench before hopping in beside the stretcher.

Setting the oxygen tank near Johnny’s feet, Roy nodded at his partner and turned to the squad. The crowd surrounded Roy as he tried to get ready to leave, slowing the hurried paramedic down with questions and rumours.

Glancing out at Roy’s plight just before the attendant shut the rear doors, Johnny could see that the blond man stood apart from the rest, staring at the house and fingering the scar on his temple.

En route, Johnny kept an eye on his patient as he relayed updated vitals to Dr. Brackett. Even through the mask covering his nose and mouth, the man's agonized breathing assaulted his ears, echoing loudly over the roar of the siren.

“Rampart, BP’s fallen to 90/60. ETA is about 5 minutes.”

“10-4 squad 51. Start another IV, D5W, and keep us updated on the BP.”

“10-4.”

As Johnny set up the second IV, trying to find a vein in the small, almost mummified arms, a last, whispered breath passed through Mr. Eldritch’s body, deflating diseased lungs.

“Cardiac arrest.” Johnny set aside the IV set up, not realizing he had spoken out loud. Checking for a pulse with his right hand, his left reached for the biophone, which erupted in sparks, the handset flying from his hand. Momentarily shocked, Johnny shook out his singed hand, pushing the biophone to the floor. Thin wisps of smoke curled up from the red case, mixing with the milky clouds slipping unnoticed from the paramedic’s mouth in the suddenly frigid air.

“It’s just you and me here, Mr. Eldritch, so don’t you die on me now.” Starting CPR on the man, Johnny could smell the rotten breath forced from the body with each thrust, and he could hear bones cracking as he counted off the compressions."

Sitting on the bed in the exam room, Johnny watched as Dr. Early checked out the burn on his hand. The stinging in his palm was subsiding, but he felt chilled and a bit out of sorts.

“Well, Johnny, you seem to be fine, just superficial burns. I’ll give you ointment to put on it, and try to keep the area clean.” Pulling a stool up next to the bed, Dr. Early started wrapping a dressing over the palm of the paramedic’s hand. “How’d you do this again?”

Pointing with his good hand at the slightly charred biophone in the corner, Johnny started to tell the story for the second time that hour.

Just as he was relating the part where he did one man CPR in the ambulance, Roy walked in the room, a cup of coffee in each hand. Handing one to his partner, he went over to examine the ruined equipment.

“Hey, Roy. You heard this story yet?” Finishing off the dressing, Dr. Early swiveled in his stool.

Picking up the handset, Roy nodded. “As soon as I got to the hospital, I found Johnny standing in the hall with the biophone in one hand and trying to show every passing nurse the burn he had on the other.”

Dr. Early laughed. “Johnny, you weren’t trying to use this as a way to get dates, were you?”

Placing his undamaged hand over his heart, Johnny hopped off the bed. “Doc, I swear to you, all I wanted was for somebody to look at my burn. I wouldn’t think of doing something like that.” Yep, he definitely felt a chill.

Dropping the melted handset back into the case, Roy turned and leaned his back against the tile wall. “Or you didn’t think of doing that, ‘til now?”

“Well, what do we have here?” Letting the door swing shut behind him, Dr. Kelly Brackett walked into the treatment room, taking in the bandage on Johnny’s hand and the broken biophone on the counter next to Roy.

“Heya, Doc. How’s Mr. Eldritch?” Scratching at the bandage, Johnny hoped for good news. He had done CPR until the stretcher was pushed into the treatment room, leaving to retrieve his things from the ambulance when he saw he could do no more and that the doctors had everything well in hand.

Pushing his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, Dr. Brackett shook his head. “Sorry, Johnny. He was too far gone.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.” Johnny leaned heavily against the bed.

“Now, what’s this about you destroying expensive hospital equipment?” Dr. Brackett moved to the counter, wrinkling his nose at the smell of burned circuitry and plastic. “Looks like you managed to do quite a good job of it too.”

“Well, I don’t know what happened, but the phone bit back.” Shoving his hand out so Dr. Brackett could see the bandage, Johnny prepared himself for the upcoming lecture.

Crossing his hands over his chest, Dr. Brackett leaned back against the counter next to Roy. “What were you doing when it exploded?”

“I was reaching over to call in the code on Mr. Eldritch. He had just gone into cardiac arrest, and when I grabbed the phone, the whole thing shot sparks and the handset got so hot I thought it was going to start a fire.”

“Did something happen to it earlier? A biophone just doesn’t blow up on its own.”

“Maybe something happened when I, um, dropped it.” Johnny waited for the reaction he knew was forthcoming.

Brackett let his arms fall and faced Johnny. “You dropped it? How far?”

“A foot, maybe two at the most,” Johnny justified, “but it shouldn’t have been damaged by that. It fell on carpet so thick you wouldn’t have heard a herd of elephants come racing through there.”

“Do you know how expensive that equipment is? You can’t just be throwing it around whenever you feel like it.”

“Kel, you know they have to scale down cliffs and run through fires with that equipment,” Dr. Early cut in, trying to calm his friend down. “I’m surprised that it doesn’t come back worse than it does most of the time.”

Rubbing his forehead, Dr. Brackett agreed. “I know, Joe, I know. Sorry, Johnny. I’m sure you had a good reason for it falling.”

Johnny cleared his throat as all eyes turned his way.

“You do have a good reason, right?” Brackett narrowed his eyes, pinning the paramedic on the spot.
“Well, I...that is, she...” Johnny shifted from foot to foot, looking to his partner for help.

“Hey, don’t look at me.” Roy moved over to the door, out of the line of fire. “I wasn’t there.”

“I couldn’t help it,” Johnny spouted, suddenly getting angry. “She snuck up on me, scaring me half to death.”

“What?” Dr. Kelly Brackett took a deep breath, getting ready to blow. “Of all the hair-brained...”

“Go on, guys, I’ll calm him down.” Joe Early waved the paramedics out of the room, sitting himself back on the stool, waiting for the storm to pass.

“Come on, Johnny, let’s go get the supplies before you get yourself in any more trouble.” Roy held the door open, letting Johnny escape into the hallway.

Dixie McCall smiled, watching Johnny and Roy approach the nurses’ station. “So, sounds like you succeeded in getting Kel in a bad mood.”

“Yeah, and all it took was Johnny blowing up the biophone.” Roy took the box of supplies Dixie handed over the desk, checking the contents against the supply request.

“Well, I called down to supply, and they’re sending a new one up. I just need you to sign the forms, and you boys can be on your way.” Dixie slid a stack of papers an inch thick over to Johnny, cocking her eyebrow. “Kind of makes you feel like you’re signing your life away, doesn’t it?”

Eyeing the stack, Johnny protested. “Why do I have to sign? Roy’s the senior paramedic.”

“You broke it, you bought it.” Dixie nodded thanks to the clerk who dropped the new biophone on the desk. “Better hurry, or he might take it back.”

“Okay, okay.” Patting his pockets, Johnny found himself at a loss for a pen. “Dix, you wouldn’t happen to have a...”

“Let me guess. You forgot yours in the squad again.” Dixie reached into a drawer, pulling out a black pen. “That’s the fourth time this month you’ve lost your pen.”

Taking the proffered pen, Johnny started leafing through the pages, initialing and signing his name where needed. He passed the papers to the clerk and held the pen out to Dixie.
“No, that’s yours,” Dixie pushed the hand back. “That pen is the last one you’re getting from me. I even had your name put on it, so you wouldn’t lose it.”

Johnny took a closer look at the pen and smiled. Engraved in white at the top of the pen was his name, JOHN. “Thanks Dix. I’ll be sure to take good care of this one.” Slipping in his shirt pocket, Johnny grabbed the new biophone.

“Just take better care of it than you do the equipment.” Pushing a second pen across the desk to Roy, she shrugged. “I couldn’t give to one without getting one for the other, now could I? It’d be like playing favourites.”

“Thanks.” Roy started for the exit, pulling Johnny along as he went. “Come on, its past suppertime. I’m starved.”

“See ya, Dix.” As Johnny followed Roy down the hall, Dixie watched them as they turned to go out the exit, listening absently to their conversation. Johnny’s last question puzzled her, especially in the ninety- plus degree temperatures of an October heat wave.

“Hey, Roy. Do you find it cold in here?”

Working the mop around the end of Marco’s bed, Johnny whistled to himself tunelessly.

“Missed a spot.”

Chet stood in the doorway from the dorm room, one foot in the locker room, the other dangling over the newly mopped floor.

“Do it, Chet, and I mop your bed.” Johnny lifted the dirty wet mop and let it sit just above the bed in question.

“Geez, Gage, can’t take a joke or what?” Putting his foot down, Chet watched as the mop returned to the bucket. “Cap wants to go over some evacuation drills in about ten minutes, so you better hurry up.”

“I’ll be there.” Not trusting Chet, Johnny waited for the door to close before he resumed his chores. Rolling the bucket in front of his own bunk, Johnny finished up around Marco’s and moved to Chet’s.

Feeling the temperature drop suddenly, Johnny looked up. “Chet,” he yelled, “if this is your idea of a joke, quit it!”
All the overhead lights flickered, and went out, plunging the dorm in total darkness.

“Hey, this is not funny!” Johnny held the mop in both hands, inching backwards towards the door to the bay. “Chet, I’m going to wring your neck. Cut it out!”

Johnny flinched as something brushed passed his legs. Using the mop, he swung at it, hitting nothing. The sound of nails clicking on the hard floor faded, and one by one, the overhead lights came on.

Breathing heavy, Johnny’s eyes darted around the room, the temperature still too cold to be comfortable, burning his throat. The bucket he had placed in front of his own bunk sat beside him at the door, about six feet away from where it should have been.

Pulling the bucket back to the centre aisle, Johnny noticed something wrong with the water in the bucket. Reaching in, the thin layer of ice on the top of the water cracked as his finger brushed the surface.

“What the...” Plunging the mop back into the bucket, Johnny twirled it around until all the ice had disappeared. “You’re getting delusional in your old age, John. No more of Marco’s chili casserole after eight PM,” he muttered to himself.

Splashing the wet mop on the floor, he looked at the area he had already cleaned. A set of large dirty paw prints marred the surface, disappearing through the closed door of the locker room.

“Johnny?” Marco stuck his head in the door from the bay. “It’s time for the drill.”

Johnny stared at him blankly for a moment, then suddenly pushed the bucket and mop into the corner, hurrying after Marco.

“You get the dorm done?” Marco asked as they walked around the engine.

“No,” Johnny answered, remembering the paw prints, “I haven’t even started.”

“Cap’s going to be mad.”

Looking back over his shoulder at the dorm room door, Johnny shivered. “Well, strangely enough, it’s not Cap I’m worried about.”

Johnny wasn’t sure whether it was the bone chilling cold that woke him, or the harsh, rasping sound of somebody struggling to breathe, but he slowly drifted out of a peaceful night’s slumber confused and somewhat angry. He was tired after a night of fixing trick or treaters’ skinned knees and sugar induced stomachaches, and all he wanted was three hours of uninterrupted sleep.

“Chet, roll over!” Pulling the blanket higher on his trembling form, snuggling his head lower into his pillow, he wished that Chet would just swallow his tongue as he slept, allowing everyone else a good night’s sleep.

HGHAAAEEE...

HGHAAAEEE...

With a muttered curse, he threw back the covers, the freezing air turning his skin to goose flesh and his breath into small, billowing clouds.

“What the hell?” Johnny quickly shot to wakefulness, the cold dashing the last vestiges of sleep from him, his heart racing; each beat drumming madly in his ears. Reaching out to the small dresser between the beds, he grabbed his jacket, drawing it on with shaking hands. Reaching down for his turnout pants and slipping them on, he noticed that the metal fasteners were painfully cold, leaving little red marks on his fingertips, as if he had been burned.

HGHAAAEEE...

HGHAAAEEE...

Shivering, he surveyed the room.

Roy lay sleeping peacefully on his bunk, covers thrown off in a vain attempt to get cool, softly snoring in his boxers and T-shirt. A hand was curled up under his cheek on the pillow. Looking closely, Johnny could make out small beads of sweat on his partner’s forehead.

“Roy?” His voice cracked on the single syllable. Clearing his throat, he put more force behind his words. “Roy, wake up.”

Roy did not move, the sweat now trickling slowly off the end of his nose.

“Roy!” Johnny jumped at the sound of his own voice, loud and leaden in the night air. Still, his partner did not move, nor any of the other sleeping occupants of the dorm.

Shivers ran like icy fingers down his spine. He wanted to reach down and shake his partner into wakefulness, but with his hand inches from the other’s shoulder he stopped. What would he do if his hand simply passed through the other man? What would he do faced with that kind of unreality? Stepping away from his bunk, he walked to the aisle that ran down the centre of the dorm, curling the hand into a fist.

In the dim light cast from the lamp on Cap’s desk, he could see Mike and the Cap lying on their bunks. The Cap’s arm draped over his eyes, his fingers twitching as he dreamed, and Mike sprawled on top of his covers, a magazine opened on his chest, forgotten in sleep.

HGHAAAAEEE...

HGHAAAAEEE...

The squeak of bed springs made Johnny jump as Marco tossed in his sleep, mumbling in Spanish as he settling back down, his breathing becoming slow and steady as he slipped again into a deep sleep.

Noticing how his own breath was becoming faster and shallower as the breathing noise that had awakened him grew, Johnny backed towards the door to the bay, stopping briefly at the foot of Chet’s bunk.

The man he had wanted to strangle just a few minutes before slept noiselessly, playing with his moustache even in sleep. The H R Puff n Stuff T-shirt Chet had picked up from God knew where showed sweat stains under his armpits and in a small ‘V’ on the front of his chest, turning Jimmy, Cling, Clang, and the dragon-come-mayor three shades darker than normal.

HGHAAAEEE...

HGHAAAEEE...

The sound was now echoing off the walls, and still no one else in the dorm seemed aware of it. Johnny felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and the nerve endings on the outer edges of his ear tingle as the noise brushed itself tangibly against his face. The quick movement of air drew his attention to the Captain’s desk, as it stirred the papers scattered there.

Mesmerized, Johnny watched as his pen, the one he knew had been tucked safely into his shirt pocket, slowly roll towards the small lamp, the white engraving on the side of the pen revolving clearly into view as it settled in the puddle of light at the lamp’s base. Johnny could clearly see there seemed to be more written on it now than just his name.

‘JOHN Simon Says Fearing is Believing'

A flicker of light drew his eyes away from the pen, to the door to the right of the desk.

The locker room door was closed, the light that they always left on to save toes on late night washroom visits leaked from under the door, illuminating some dust bunnies near Stoker’s bed. The sliver of light flickered again, as something moved in the locker room.

HGHAAAEEEE...


HGHAAAEEEE...

On the other side of the locker room door, Johnny could hear the sharp click of something pacing. Shadows moved back and forth under the door.

Click click click

The shadow stopped, blocking most of the light. The dust bunnies floated across the floor as whatever waited on the other side stuck its nose under the door, sniffing.

The sudden image of a silver and red nametag slapping against a chain link fence came to Johnny as he heard the growling grow in the locker room.

Taking small, measured steps, Johnny backed toward the door to the bay, his eyes quickly darting around the room, catching small, indistinct movements in the corners of his vision. As his back thumped solidly against the door, the shadow in the locker room started to pace again. The sound of its claws was sharp and distinct on the tile. Johnny caught a movement on the desk and found his eyes drawn there.

The pen was rattling on the blotter, rising higher off the desk with each bounce. With one final leap, the pen hit the lamp, finally coming to a stop balanced on its tip, as if a ghostly hand was preparing to write a letter.

Suddenly, the pen flew through the room, heading straight for the door where Johnny stood, frozen.

With a strangled cry, Johnny flung himself through the door, the pen clattering to the floor as it missed his head by inches. Stumbling to a halt in the apparatus bay, Johnny covered his ears with his hands, the unearthly breathing assaulting his senses. Here, not only could he hear the noise, but it vibrated through the floor, into his very bones, and he could taste the stale, bitter breath as he fought to take his own.

HGHAAAEEE...

HGHAAAEEE...

The bay was dark. The lights normally kept burning at this late hour were snuffed, leaving only thin trickles of light coming in through the small windows in the large bay door.

Reaching out in the dark, he gasped as fingers found cold metal, the chrome burning his hands as he felt his way to the front of the fire truck. Even in the dim yellow light of the street lamps, he could see the icicles hanging like crystal daggers from the edge of the engine.

HGHAAAEEE...

HGHAAAEEE...

The driver’s compartment of the squad blazed with white light, forcing Johnny to squeeze his eyes shut at the sudden onslaught. Wiping away tears, he squinted into the faintly pulsating light. Something that bright should not feel so cold.

In the driver’s seat, a helmet perched atop his head sat Michael Eldritch. His eyes and cheeks were sunken in, the ravages of time and illness clear in the pure white glow that surrounded him.

Unable to stop himself, Johnny shuffled forward to the passenger door, his door. He watched with amazement as his hand moved toward the handle, gripping it tightly, but not releasing the catch. Raising his eyes, he looked into the cab.

The old man sat with both hands on the steering wheel, but his head was turned towards Johnny, his eyes two black, depthless holes. His mouth was pressed into a thin, dark line. As he smiled, the rasping breath issued from dry, scaly lips, and Johnny could hear the skin crack and tear as the grin grew wider.


Shutting his eyes tightly, Johnny tried to wish the image away, but a low rumbling growl made him look again.

A large dog, the word ‘King’ hanging from his collar, sat on the passenger seat of the cab, his pupils red, his fangs bared. Letting out a warning bark, the dog leaped out the passenger window.

Johnny screamed.

The tones sounded in the station, bringing all the lights in the bay up to full intensity. Johnny stood, panting, his right hand gripping the door handle, the sweat on his body chilling him to the bone.

“Station 51, Engine 10. Structure fire, Sam’s House of Mirrors, 3678 Blackscreen Dr. Nearest cross street, Dearborn. Time out 5:33.”

Hearing the booted feet of his station mates pounding into the bay, he shook his head, clearing his mind. The icicles that had hung from the trucks were gone, as was the noise and the spectral visitor.

“Hey, Gage! You must have made the apparatus bay run in record time! I didn’t even see you leave the bunk.” Slapping Johnny as he rushed by, Chet jumped into his seat on the engine.

Johnny nearly took the door off its hinges as he swung it outward, trying to slow his heart rate and breathing.

“Gee, you run like that, we’re putting you in the fireman’s Olympics this year.” Propping his helmet on his head, Chet smirked at Johnny.

“Yeah, right. 100 yard fright,” Johnny mumbled to himself. Making sure Roy was in the driver’s seat and the dog was gone, Johnny slipped into the passenger seat, noticing small patches of frost in the corners of the windshield.

Roy picked up something he had thrown on the seat beside him, glancing at Johnny as he drove out of the station.

“Johnny? I think you dropped this in the dorm.” He was holding a pen in his hand. “I nearly broke my neck when I stepped on it.”

Johnny watched as Roy reached across the cab and slipped the pen into his jacket pocket. The bright white printing on the side of the pen clearly noticeable as it settled deep in the pocket, radiating cold straight from his jacket to his skin.

‘Simon Says Fearing is Believing'

Sighing, Johnny saw the small breath of air coalesce in front of his face. “Thanks, Roy. You’re a pal.”

Smiling at his partner as he raced down the road, Roy didn’t notice the frown on Johnny’s face.

Station 51 was all ready laying hose and attacking the blaze at the structure when Engine 10 arrived on scene.

Sam’s House of Mirrors was a two-story vinyl-sided building sandwiched between a deserted car wash and an empty lot in a depressed area of the city. Flames danced in the two story high front windows as smoke poured out from the roof and the second story windows flanking the back of the building.

“Chet, Marco, run an inch and a half out to the right side. Engine 10, have your men cover the front and left sides of the building.” Captain Stanley watched the bustle of activity as the crews combined to fight the fire. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned to the new arrival. “I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to keep back.”

“I own the building. I’m Sam Waterman.” His face and arms sooty, the V-neck vest grimy with ash and that day’s breakfast, Sam Waterman held out his hand.

Ignoring it, Captain Stanley instead clapped the man on the back, giving him a reassuring smile. “Mr. Waterman, we’ll do all we can to save the building. Is there anything in there that is flammable? Is anyone in the building?”

Lowering his hand, Sam looked around at the small group of people on the street. “I think everyone’s out. We were going to move out a lot of inventory today, so I had everyone come in early to help. There may be somebody...”

The front windows of the shop exploded from the heat, spraying shards of glass over the street and the nearby firefighters. Sam Waterman cowered back towards the Captain, then scurried away across the roadway.

“Johnny. Roy.” Captain Stanley called out to his men, both of whom wore their turnout gear, with SCBA tanks and masks at the ready. “We need you to do a search, there may be people left inside.”

“Right, Cap.”

Pulling facemasks and gloves on, Roy led the way into the building, flashlights at the ready. A crew from Engine 10 covered the entrance, beating back the flames with a blanket of water.

The interior of the store rose two stories, no second floor existed for the first 30 feet. The walls on either side of the entrance were burning, flames licking the exposed wooden ceiling joists. Holes in the roof where skylights once rested vented most of the smoke and toxic gases, leaving the room surprisingly clear.

Almost every inch of the walls in the store was covered in mirrors, in all shapes and sizes. Thousands of fragments of glass and mirror littered the floor tile; the cracking and shattering of glass so loud, it almost drowned out the sound of the fire.

“I don’t think we’ll need these in here.” Roy turned off his flashlight and dropped it in his pocket, Johnny quickly mimicking his actions. The reflective surfaces surrounding them transformed the fire into millions of yellowish-orange floodlights. “I’ll take the right.”

Moving around the showroom, thousands of firemen echoed the moves of the two paramedics, confusing the men as they looked for victims.

Meeting at a doorway on the back-wall of the store, Johnny leaned over to Roy, the flames spreading fast along the wall behind him. “This place is like a funhouse. I didn’t find anybody, but I don’t know if what I saw moving was me, you, or someone else.”

“Nothing on my side, either. Look, we check out the back and the second floor, then we’ll swing back through here together. We’ll go straight through the middle, and if we see a single movement, we know it’s not us.”

“Right.” Pulling off his glove, Johnny checked the door. Grabbing hold of the handle, he gave the door a shove, revealing a long hallway, walls and ceiling lined with mirrors, the end lost in a haze of smoke.

“Gee, you think this guy had a thing for mirrors?” Motioning for Roy to go in, Johnny hung back. A prickling sensation ran across his scalp as he sensed something behind him. Twisting around, he saw a pair of red eyes staring at him from every mirror he could see just before his feet slipped out from under him. Falling backwards into the hallway, his elbow shattered a mirror hanging on the wall, pieces falling down around his head and shoulders.

Just outside of the hallway, in the store, a large beveled mirror dropped from its place above the door, sinking one sharp corner two inches straight into the floor before cracking into pieces.

“Johnny! You okay?” Roy hunched over his friend, looking for cuts or puncture wounds.

“I’m fine.” Picking himself off the floor, Johnny brushed off splinters of glass from his coat. He saw the chunk of beveled glass imbedded in the tile, right where he had been standing seconds before.

“You know,” Roy began, “that’s seven years bad luck right there.”

“Great, seven more years of Chet.” Looking out into the store, Johnny couldn’t sense the presence that had made him turn around in the first place, but he wondered why it felt like his blood ran cold.

“Let’s get this over with.” With one last thought at his narrow escape, Johnny turned back to the hall.

The only door in the hall was ten feet down from the main store. A sign proclaiming it a storeroom hung from a plastic hand screwed into the door.

“I’ll check this room, you go on ahead.” Shouting through his mask to be heard, Roy waited for the confirming nod before placing his hand on the door to his right, pushing it open when it felt cool under his touch.

Johnny inched his way down the hall, seeing Roy enter the room behind him in the mirrors lining the walls. Holding out his hands, Johnny tried to distinguish between the mirrored images and reality, the reflections confusing in the semi darkness. Flashes of red came and went in the mirrors he passed, unnoticed.

Straight in front of him, Johnny saw another fireman approach, his own steps as hesitant as Johnny’s were.

“Hey, over here!” Waving his arm, Johnny saw the other fireman do the same. “Hey...”

Reaching his hand out to grab the other man, Johnny encountered cold glass instead. Smiling at the reflection, he nodded his head and introduced himself. “John Gage, meet John Gage.”

The hallway had ended in a T, the way to the right running straight and unbroken to a door. The left-hand branch opened up into a room lined with mirrors three or four deep, more resting against a pillar situated in the middle of the room. A set of stairs peeked out from behind two floor to ceiling mirrors on the left, the light from the fire at the top of the stairs reflected across the room.

“Johnny!”

Roy’s voice pulled him back from further exploration of the room and he spun back around to rejoin his partner. In front of him, six possible entrances to the main hallway faced him and he had to feel for the real opening. Heading back towards the storeroom, Johnny found Roy crouched over the body of a man.

“He’s still alive.” Throwing the man over his shoulder, Roy started back towards the front of the store.

“Roy, I’m going to check the back of the building.” Waiting for the nod of understanding from his partner, Johnny turned and worked his way back to the hallway, his reflection echoing his movements.

Reaching the T-junction again, Johnny turned to the left, moving through an archway into the room. The fire at the top of the stairs had spread down most of the risers, the light magnified a thousandfold.

Keeping to the right hand side, Johnny edged his way to the opposite wall, keeping his eyes downcast to avoid the dazzling display of light and heat reflected his way. Surprisingly, he felt cold under all his layers in the middle of a blaze.

Starting down the next wall, Johnny saw quick movement to his left.

Reflected in the mirrors leaning against the centre pillar, Johnny saw a huge German shepherd dog, its teeth bared as it stood behind him on his right. Hearing it growl, Johnny slowly turned around to see the dog reflected in the mirrors again, but this time it was as if it was standing on the opposite side, but still two paces behind him. It was the same dog that had leapt at him from the squad, the same dog from Chet’s childhood story. The growl got louder.

Spinning, Johnny could see the dog standing behind him in every mirror, but he could not see the real dog.His breath raspy and loud in his own ears, Johnny tried to move ahead, but the German shepherd’s hackles rose and it started to snarl. Its eyes turned red, the flames reflected in the large pupils.

Slowly backing towards the archway, Johnny noticed the way the mirrors showed him from every angle, but the dog always stood staring straight at him, its head and powerful chest to the fore, its nametag glittering silver and red on its collar.

Taking a last backward step, Johnny found himself pressed up against the archway leading into the hall. Sliding to the left until his back was to the empty hallway, Johnny’s eyes kept darting from mirror to mirror, dog to dog.

A flicker of blue in the back of the room drew his gaze to the mirrors directly across from the archway.

Beside the dog in one large mirror only, Michael Eldritch stood, one hand holding the leather collar, the other pointing right at Johnny.

Michael Eldritch let go of the collar, and at some unheard command, the thousands of dogs, one per reflection, lunged at the paramedic.

Johnny reeled as he ran straight down the short hall, heading for the door on the opposite end of the hallway.

Johnny crashed through the back door, the dog right at his heels.

“Captain?” Sam Waterman tapped Captain Stanley on the shoulder, trying to get his attention. “Captain, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Mr. Waterman, please keep back.” Taking him by the elbow, Captain Stanley led the House of Mirrors owner away from engine. “What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know what he’s got down there,” Sam started, “but I rent the basement to a young fella.” Swiping a hand across his face, he faltered. “He pays me good money, and I keep to my own business...”

“Mr. Waterman, please. Is he in the basement right now?” Captain Stanley waved Station 10’s Captain over.

“No, no, I saw him leave real early this morning.” Sam Waterman glanced nervously at the police officer doing crowd control. “He’s got some kind of equipment down there, under the back of the store. It looks like a lab.”

“What kind of lab?” Captain Stanley and 10’s Captain traded looks behind the man’s back.

“Drugs,” the man’s shoulders slumped. “I think he makes drugs.”

“Damn.” Captain Stanley thumbed the switch on his HT. “L.A., this is Engine 51. We have a possible drug lab at our current location, send three additional units.”

“It’s been hard, business real bad. I needed the money...” Sam Waterman muttered as he walked away. “I didn’t think...I didn’t think...”

Counting heads, Captain Stanley saw that they were short two men. “Get some lines to the back of the building!”

Dragging charged hoses down either side of the structure, the crews attacked the first and second floors.

Captain Stanley watched for movement at the front of the store, tense shoulder muscles relaxing a bit when he saw a shadow emerge.

“Roy, where’s Johnny?” Captain Stanley followed Roy to the squad, his eyes still on the door hoping to see the second paramedic.

“He’s still in there, checking the back of the building.” Gently placing the man on the ground, Roy shrugged off his air tank and mask. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Three trucks pulling up to the scene forestalled any answer as the Captain left to direct the new units.

“I’ve got one man still in there, and a possible drug lab right under him.” Barking orders as he ran over to the new crews, Captain Stanley missed the commotion starting on the buildings right.

Exploding from the back door, John Gage ran full speed past the men that were manning the hoses, heading blindly for the fire trucks that lined the street.

Seeing the haste in which their fellow firefighter left the building, knowing about the lab in the basement, the men dropped the lines, scattering in all directions.

Catching Johnny’s arm as he sped by, Captain Stanley stopped his flight. “John!”

The rear of Sam’s House of Mirrors dissolved into the air, the shock wave shattering windows in nearby businesses. The explosion littered the neighbourhood with splinters of glass and wood.

As the debris continued to fall, spectators ran for cover and the firefighters raced back to continue fighting the fire.

Skidding to a halt, Johnny wheeled around, his facemask fogged. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?” Leading Johnny over to the squad, Cap set him down on the running board, pulling the facemask off of the obviously dazed paramedic.

“It was chasing me...” Coughing, Johnny searched the area, relaxing back against the squad when he didn’t see the dog.

“Hey, Pal, take it easy.” Cap watched as Johnny closed his eyes, the rough breathing easing. “Tell me something. How’d you know that the lab was about to blow?”

Opening one eye, Johnny looked up at his captain. The lab? “I didn’t know.”

Hank Stanley raised an eyebrow. “Well, the way you tore out of there, everyone figured you saw it coming and dropped their lines and ran. You saved a lot of people today, even if you didn’t know you did.” With a final squeeze on Johnny’s shoulder, Captain Stanley returned to the engine.

Picking up his facemask and turning it over in his hands, Johnny contemplated the reason for his flight from the building. Did something force him out in time to save his life and others? Running his hands along the air hose, his finger disappeared into a small hole. He must have sliced it open when he broke the mirror, and had been slowly breathing in small amounts of the smoke as he searched the building.

“You okay?” Roy sat down beside his partner, noticing his unusually quiet mood.

“Fine.” Johnny gave Roy a crooked grin. “Just thinking about how smoke can play tricks on you.” He held out the air hose, exposing the split. “It does some crazy things to the mind.”

Roy nodded. “We should get you checked out, some of that smoke could have been coming from a drug lab in the basement. How about we run you over to Rampart, and then head back to the station?”

Sighing, Johnny assented. “Okay.” Standing, he looked around, searching for the man Roy had brought out earlier. “Where’s...?”

“He’s been sent to Rampart, all ready. He’s fine, just some smoke inhalation.” Roy steered Johnny over to the passenger side of the squad. “Dr. Brackett was kind enough to let me stay here in case you got yourself in trouble in case the building went.”

“Dr. Brackett?” Johnny paused outside his door as Roy moved to the driver’s side. “I guess he’s not mad at me anymore, then.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t put it like that.” Roy smiled as he climbed in the cab. “I think he wants to be the one that inflicts damage on you, not some fire. You’re still in the bad books.”

Sighing, Johnny shook his head and tugged open his door. As he pulled it closed behind him, Johnny glanced at the side mirror.

At the rear of the squad, Michael Eldritch stood, the German shepherd sitting at his feet. With a nod of his head, he acknowledged Johnny’s gaping stare and turned around, the dog lolling at his heels, both disappearing after taking a few steps.

“Johnny? Johnny?” Roy reached out and shook his partner.

“What?” Johnny tore his eyes from the mirror, looking over at his partner, then past him to the House of Mirrors, and the men fighting the fire. “How’d you know that the lab was about to blow?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, more than okay.” Pulling the pen from his pocket, Johnny watched as the words Simon Says Fearing is Believing faded, leaving only his name emblazoned in white. For the first time that day, he was finally feeling warm. “I’m doing okay.”

Staggering from their perches on the engine, the crew watched as the squad backed into its place beside them, both vehicles arriving within seconds of each other from their separate destinations.

Wandering into the kitchen from the bay, dirty and tired from the fire, the crew of station 51 threw themselves into whatever available chair they happened upon.

“I think its Marco’s turn to start the coffee.” Mike raised his head from the cushion of the couch, a look of longing on his face as he looked at the empty pot on the stove.

“Man, that was the weirdest call I’ve seen in a while!” Chet wiped at the soot covering most of his face. “The way that thing blew, Gage, you’re lucky to be alive.”

Marco placed the coffeepot on the stove. “Yeah, how did you know to get out of there?”

Johnny sat hunched in his chair, rolling his pen back and forth between his hands on the table. “I don’t know,” he shrugged, stopping the pen before it rolled over the edge, “I guess you could say I got a little help from...well, someone I met once.”

“Someone you met once?” Chet left his seat and confronted Johnny. “What do you mean, ‘someone you met once’? There was no one else in the building when you came tearing out of there!”

Slipping the pen in his pocket, Johnny smiled and clapped Chet on the arm. “What I mean, Chet, is that I think next year I’ll have the best Hallowe’en story, hands down.”

Roy looked up from writing in the squad’s call book. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts and witches and all that stuff.”

“Well, a guy can change his mind, can’t he?” Johnny grabbed a cup and poured himself some fresh brewed coffee. “You know, Roy. We never heard whether or not you believe in witches.”

Putting down his pen, Roy put his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned back, popping his back as he did so. “I really don’t think that it makes any difference if I do or I don’t, but before you annoy me to distraction, no, I don’t believe in all that stuff.”

“Nothing? Not witches, or ghosts, or spirits?”

Shaking his head, Roy denied it all. “There is no such thing as witches.”

Cup poised at his lips, Johnny watched Roy’s pen rolled across the table and his partner suddenly rubbing his hands vigorously on his arms.

“Hey, anybody else finding it getting cold in here?”

Johnny just might have some competition next year, after all.

HAPPY HALLOWE’EN!

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