Annie Hathway

This short story was submitted as part of Catalyst’s 2020 Writing Contest. To view more submissions from the Writing Contest, please visit utcatalyst.org/writing-contest.

Smooth silky gloss. Glaring purple (or dark blue?) lipstick. Colorblind Annie couldn’t tell or care to tell. Annie Hathway, the beauty of the evening, the ambassador to—or from?—the heavens, the I-totally-crave-chocolate lady of the neighborhood, was ready to trick-or-treat. 

Illustration Credit: Josh Nigam

Or was she? The thought of covering her tender youth with a dollar-store mask … didn’t quite land. Her mother would’ve advised against it as well. Bare-faced, charm-tendered, and eloquently cologned, gracious little Ms. Hathway walked out her door, with her empty pumpkin-shaped bucket. Off she began. The trick. Or treat. 

The twenty-four-year-old was, well, a little too old for this adorable gibberish. Heck, the streets were full of high-pitched chatter from groups of six- to eleven-year-olds. Annie, perhaps glowing pink in her pursuit for bachelors, had caught up to the moment: she was no child and should spend the night on Netflix (or Hulu, or YouTube, ah—I don’t track her TV subscriptions anymore). 

But hey: Annie is in the clear! The men on the streets, particularly flattered by her presence, may have seriously considered divorce, for Annie flaunted her charm as she made the most naive of Halloween puns with their children. Right, the single bachelors. Our focus group. Where are they? Wandering in the haze of employment, desperation, and love? Well, Annie was sparking talk with full desire to exercise her youthful glamour. 

A certain teenage girl, in a magnificent neon witch costume, struck a conversation with Annie. They exchanged smiles, and ha—Annie is taking interest in the neighborhood gossip! Or pretending to. 

“ … No, I wouldn’t call it like a Halloween ‘cliché’. It’s been a thing, for, like–like a couple of years … ?” said the teenage girl, Neah, responding to a certain query of Annie’s.

“Okay, so why do I not know about this for a ‘couple’ of years?” remarked Annie, with her mascara slowly trickling down her worn-out cheek. 

“Maybe get outside, gurl,” mocked Noah, Neah’s twin brother. The gurl-iness made Annie chuckle, for her calm was the star of the night. Her composure was firm, but in the slightest disarrangement of natural circumstances, it would serve to be bitterly brittle. Now was not the time. Gurl. Introvert. Dumpster—correction—I-got-dumped’ster. 

Interestingly, Annie didn’t seem to mind the trash talk at all. Nor did she bother correcting her make-up for the evening or retracting the sweat off her wrists.

“Hey, Matthew was it? Sorry, I have night-blindness, can’t see your face too well,” Annie struck dialogue with maybe-Matthew. 

“Yeah, I’m Matthew.” 

“Oh, cool, you know … how random graves are being dug open and re-buried in people’s backyards—” 

Matt covered Annie’s mouth with a rather quick hand, and a furious face (does he even go by Matt?). “It’s the thing! My parents literally kicked me out for saying it out loud,” Matthew followed “Are you, like, into that kinda thing?” 

Pause. How long? Enough to deserve a sentence.

“Well … Matthew, who wouldn’t be?” 

“So, you’re going to act like the protagonist of an unnecessarily complicated horror movie: stupidly unaware of like ‘Hey! If I stopped what I am about to do, I can like, not get into some major shi—’” Matt denounced. 

“I’m more into romance, actually RomComs—actually no. No comedy in romance.” Chatter, chatter, chatter. Matt was, to say the least, at a social disequilibrium. However old he was, Matthew Sage stood firm to swallow Ms. Hathway’s enchanting murmur, while conveying that he was perplexed to be spending his Halloween evening with some trivial stranger. 

In the midst of a rather idiosyncratic dialogue, Matt’s older brother—actually, much older brother—enters the scene. And we’re talking twenty-three and above league. Hazel Sage was a fine gentleman, but not quite the eclair of Annie’s eyes. Yet, her eyes lit up as a boy of her age finally approached. 

“Gosh, are y’all talking about the grave thing?” his extremely soothing voice oozed out.

“Yes,” responded Annie. 

“Ya, I think the mischief is bound to happen tonight. It’s nasty but spicy. Someone should try to booby trap this low-key mortician.” 

Annie wasn’t sure if Hazel was juggling his best vocabulary on a romantic intent, but she was already picturing herself as Mrs. Sage. Alas, she must snap out of it; however, the now-Ms. Hathway must attempt to make a move. A sinisterly, moderately jester-esque, and perhaps, a rather cumbersome undertaking must be made on subject Hazel. 

“Right. Suppose I catch this guy. What do I get in retu—?” Annie stops midway into her mischief. 

“Nay—this is not a bet or anything. But sure, you get a little something from me.” Matt now knew what was going on. He made the excuse to trick-or-treat further, concurring his antithesis of a statement knowing darn well that no one has candy to share at this hour. 

Hazel gave Annie a peculiar look, then smiled, and followed behind. It was a quasi-win for the young lady. Now, the chemistry student was in no mood to binge-watch a TV series she didn’t particularly like. To my fright, Annie already had a chillingly scientific, yet morally astute plan to expose the identity of the grave-thief. Or grave-returner? 

No control groups or significance tests; Annie’s imperative was set to catch, detain, and rehabilitate this criminal. How? She was going to work with her subject. She knew exactly where the grave was, and knew exactly which residence to—well, you know—find the deed. 

Left on Main St. Straight ahead for half-a-block. Right through the fourth house on the left. Right. There was the St. Marshall’s cemetery. Oh, must I mention?—Annie’s mother now called this home. 

She’d ask the Uber driver to stop here every time she returned from college abroad. That was some time ago, but Annie’s fondness of the place never earthen-ed. She stood near the arc where mourning speeches were conducted: tucking herself in a shallow pit of darkness.

Was she waiting on the culprit? Yes—wait, no—she crawled back into the barren land into the graveyard. 

Someone was following her. No—someone was creeping in on her. 

The culprit was within a punch’s reach. Both ways: Annie could be groped to surrender, within an arm’s reach. 

Annie could feel her breath condense on the leaves of the peace lily, and, on moving flesh. The thrill spiked, but jolted to a humorous halt when Annie sniffed a strong hint of … Almond Joy? Or coconut oil and hot chocolate? 

Annie made an awkward leap, much like a rainforest frog, for her face was profusely covered in sweat and cheap thrills. She slowly lifted her light self off her knees and attempted to walk. The shrunken toxicity of October the thirty-first enclosed the predicament in a Disney-vibe: as if the drama had lost morale in the grandeur of a wholesome plot. But the grave-digger drew closer, still, refraining from rising up to the standards of gothic intimidation. But—aha! Annie had crept up behind several trees forming—in the daylight, what one would call a canopy. The unknown man did not hurry behind her, for he must have had his own mission. This was no hide and seek. Or was it? 

Annie secured a good 50 feet of separation between herself and the man who followed her. She felt unusually safe, despite knowing that a couple of good leaps could bring the stalker’s omens closer. 

“I guess he is digging a grave tonight as well,” Annie thought to herself. 

And this is where things get hazy: even past my intuition. Annie pulls a shovel from her Hilfiger purse and dug up a small patch of soil. Right beside a tombstone commemorating “Gina Kim.” 1927 - 2007. Forever loved. 

Annie succumbed to the pain in her heels, squatting down to dig around the certain grave. Her numbness circulated to her head, as the man had caught up to her. Are they in this together? A magnificent crossover episode it was destined to be. There were two grave-diggers now. Annie quickened her pace and dug harder. She had a point to prove. The man was not in the mood to outclass this diva. Her mascara dripped down her left eye, beholding the elegant spectacle of the devil. 

Then, Mr. Hathway posed: “Honey, where are your pills?”