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1
Treat or Trick?
It isn’t the creepy spiderweb decorations.
It isn’t the tiny white ghost and skeleton ornaments hanging from the lighting fixtures that seem to stare at me no matter where I stand.
Nor is it the seasonal and ever persistent aroma of pumpkin spice that has me pulled through the doors of Spooky Beans Café on 13th and Fortune Street.
It’s the adorable barista at the counter.
“Hey there. What can I get for you?”
I plaster on my signature I-promise-I’m-not-a-creep smile and suck in a nervous breath before answering. “Caramel latte, please, extra cream.”
“Coming right up,” he says with a wink.
His name’s Byron. His eyes sparkle in a soft and velvety sea of warm bronze skin, punctuated with the cutest button nose and pinched at the cheeks by dimples when he smiles with those lips I can just drown in. His hair is a short, cropped set of tight dark curls, shaved up the sides in a stylish fade with a line cut through it.
And every morning, he sells me coffee in a cup with the wrong name written on the side.
It’s my fault. The first time I came here not too long ago, my eyes fell on that irresistible, tight-shirted barista behind the counter and became so flustered, it’s anyone’s guess what the hell came out of my mouth.
But now I get a cup every time with “Calvin” written on the side. My real name is Griffin.
I don’t have the heart to correct him.
Calvin isn’t so bad a name to live with, right?
And how could I possibly correct him now? I’ve let too much time go by. It’d be weird.
I usually embrace my weirdness. I’m a fairly weird guy. But “weird” isn’t exactly attractive to just anyone, and I don’t want to be written off so soon. Honestly, I wish I had just the tiniest bit of courage inside me, just enough to have an actual dialogue with Byron that doesn’t involve how I take my coffee or how much my change is. I wish I could peer into those syrupy eyes and not melt at the knees or lose my breath like a total loser.
“Here you go, Calvin,” he says, sliding my finished coffee across the counter with a dashing smile.
I choke out a thank-you, then barely meet his eyes before scurrying out the doors. Maybe one of these days I’ll actually manage to smile back.
You know, before I run away like a spooked cat.
Believe it or not, despite all my weirdness, I happen to know someone a hundred times weirder than myself: my landlord Mrs. Shaheen, who lives right across the hall from me. The second I get to my door and pull out my keys, she’s instantly at her doorway, squinting as if through a haze of thick smoke, clicking her tongue with curiosity. “Hi,” she says through a bush of dark brown curls, her thick eyebrows pinched together suspiciously as she leans on a crooked mahogany cane. She doesn’t look all that old, so I wonder why she needs it. Maybe she’s a sorceress. That seems rather plausible suddenly.
Anyway, she’s barely known me a few weeks and she already seems attached to me like I’m her favorite nephew. “Hi, Mrs. Shah—”
“How’s your apartment holding up?” she asks too quickly, cutting me off. “Appliances working properly? Water running?”
Her voice is squeaky and curious. Or maybe I ought to say: inquisitive. “Everything’s fine, Mrs. Sh—”
“No creaky doors? Strange electrical occurrences?”
“Nope and nope.” I’m still working to get the key into the lock.
Her left eye seems twitchy. “Are you sure?”
To say she’s peculiar is a grave understatement. I turn to face her. “Is everything alright with you, Mrs. Shaheen? You seem off.” Actually, this is right about on par with her usual level of oddness. “I know Halloween is just a few days away, and you expressed how that holiday makes your skin crawl, and—”
“Oh, did I say that?” She chuckles lightly. “I don’t remember mentioning that. I actually adore Halloween. Are you sure it was me who said that and not, say, a whispery, ghostly voice in the dark of night …?”
She’s paranoid, too. “Quite sure.”
“I’ll understand if you want to move out,” she says at once, stepping away from her door to approach me. “I’ll let you break your lease, free of charge, I will. I’m wracked with guilt every night when I sleep, thinking of what you must be enduring in that apartment. You are being brave right now—so, so brave—but I can see the fear in your eyes. Things haven’t been fine, have they?”
I’m still clutching my coffee in my other hand. My eyes catch the “Calvin” written across the side, and my heart jumps, picturing the sweet, sexy face of the barista who wrote it. I wish I was as brave as she thinks I am.
The woman grabs hold of my arm. “It’s haunted.”
