Page 132 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

The last boy is dressed in a blue jumpsuit, and there’s an oversized plastic mask on his head. I can barely see his eyes behind the black, though I notice the butcher knife he’s holding and what might be blood on the jumpsuit. Though it’s too dark for me to see anything other than a gross, shiny texture on the cloth.

“And you are…?” These kids are getting either more and more creative, or watching way too much true crime.

“Cassian Byers.”

I freeze. Behind me, I’m hyperaware of Cassian, though I don’t turn to look at him. I’m too afraid.

“You’re—you⁠—”

“Cassian Byers,” the kid asserts once more. When he holds up the butcher knife, I can see the plastic is layered with a clear tube along the bottom that contains liquid to run along the ‘blade’ like blood. In the porch light, it gives an almost creepy effect as he mimes slashing down with it. “You know. He killed his sister years and years ago. He’s old now.”

Ouch.

If Cass is old, then I am too. I wince at the words, trying to keep the grin on my face as the kid riffles through the bowl, naturally going agonizingly slowly.

“Love the knife.” I’m surprised by Cass’s words and the genuine amusement in his voice. At least, I think it’s amusement. I try to glance up at him, but he’s backlit by the hallway sconce behind him, and I can only see the darkness of his silhouette. “And the mask looks good, too. But he didn’t wear a jumpsuit.”

“Yeah,” the boy sighs. “Hey, you know about him, then? Have you seen that one documentary? It’s old too. My parents have it on DVD.” The way he says the letters like some ancient language has me shuddering, once more feeling older than what I am.

Am I ancient? Have I joined the ranks of the elder-emos, the Boomers, and the Gen-X’rs?

What a horrifying concept.

“I’ve absolutely seen that documentary.” I don’t know if Cass is bullshitting me. The documentary put out by some shitty indie filmmaker isn’t exactly something we talk about much, and it’s never been part of our movie nights.

“Why do you think he did it?” the boy whispers. “Killed his sister and went after the girl she was babysitting, I mean. Do you think he was born psycho, like they said?”

“Okay.” I jerk to my feet, heart twisting and trying to jolt through my ribs. “We have to get back to what we were doing.” I grin at the kids, and the smile hurts my face with how fake it is. “Duplex down the street has great candy. See you later, bye!” Without giving them a chance to say anything else, I close the door, my fingers hovering near the light switch to end this parade of heathens early.

My eyes lock on Cass’s face, and I swear he seems…amused?

“You okay?” he asks, and I just blink at him.

“Am…am I okay?” I repeat. “What do you mean?”

“You seem very not okay.” He raises a brow at me, still standing there like none of this bothers him. “You’re all pale and weird. Not a fan of the Cass costume?”

He’s…joking. He’s standing there, after just seeing a child dressed up as a monstrous version of him, and he’s smiling mildly at me like I’m the one who might have an issue with it.

“You are?”

“Well…” he looks away, thoughtful, head tilting. “Didn’t love the jumpsuit. It was too dark to really see the blood. And what murdering child wears a black mechanic’s jumpsuit? Where would I even have gotten it?” He shakes his head. “White sneakers would’ve been a great touch. But I don’t remember what that documentary had me wearing.”

I just stare at him. Processing. Trying to figure out what the hell is actually going through his head. Slowly something bubbles up my throat, and a giggle slips past my slightly parted lips. “You’re disappointed because his costume wasn’t accurate.”

“Could’ve been better. I give it a five out of ten.”

“Not that a kid is wearing your identity like you’re the boogeyman.”

“I’ll have bragging rights for months with the guys from this. I can assure you none of them ever had kids dressing up as them on Halloween.”

That finally has me laughing for real. I glance at the light switch to make sure I didn’t actually turn it off, just as the doorbell rings once more. This time, Cass is faster than I am. He breezes by me with a grin and picks up the candy bowl before pulling the door open with a grand gesture.

As I watch, I can’t help but wonder what the filmmakers who painted him in the worst light possible would think if they could see Cassian Byers now. He kneels in front of the group of kids, accurately guessing their costumes and sorting through fun-size candy bars with them. I even see him sneak a couple extra to the shy boy who gets shuffled to the back.

When he closes the door and turns, Cass stops, looking bemused at my expression. “What?” he asks, apparently unable to read me.

“You.”