Molly and Oliver Drake were late to the Halloween party, and the thick, Maine fog wasn’t helping their journey or their attitudes. Molly was irritated at their tardiness and blamed it on Oliver for fighting with her about dressing him up as a cow and her as a farmer. “Dudes don’t have udders,” he had grumbled as he slipped his 200-lb frame into the cheap, balloonish outfit earlier in the evening. Molly yanked up the zipper and replied, “Well, you could always go as an ass.” With no witty reply, Oliver had just moo’ed and then rudely grabbed his newfound udder.

The Halloween party was a yearly event, going way back to Oliver’s college days when he and his buddies lived at the dilapidated, old Oregonian house on 12th street in Corvallis. Once the young bucks had removed the flea-infested brown shag carpeting, the house’s charm morphed into dark eeriness with wooden floors that creaked unprovoked and a cold wind that whistled through 19th-century paned windows. It was not all bad, though, as the creepiness of the house provided a self-promoting venue for Bacchus beer and babe bashes for the gang.

In fact, all of the wives at this evening’s party had been courted during the annual Halloween party at one time or another, but Oliver’s interest in the October soirees had died long ago, his imagination stagnate with the overwhelming details and duties of his life. Molly had been carrying the carcass of their group involvement for sometime, and unspoken to her, Oliver just wanted to bury the whole party idea and move on to new and more thrilling haunting grounds.

Their dusty black KIA Soul finally screeched to a halt in front of Reneé and Connor’s cheap D.R. Horton home, painted an angry Orange for some inexplicable reason. Oliver wondered if Reneé might be color-blind, but in her typical Pollyannaish fashion, Molly just called it, “Bold and sassy.” More like old and assy, Oliver mumbled back, inaudibly.

Grabbing the half-rack of Coors Light and his DVD of Wayne’s World, Oliver cow-ishly exited the car and said to Molly, “At least we didn’t have to hoof it here, Old MacDonald.” Molly rolled her eyes and replied, “Please don’t drink too much tonight. I don’t want to have to drive home in this fog.”

Oliver responded, “You expect me to stay in this outfit sober? If I don’t drink, I may commit bovinicide.”

“You’re going to milk that angle for all it’s worth, aren’t you?” Molly said, smiling.

Oliver leaned in and gave Molly a peck on her cheek. “Until the cows come home, my sweet.”

Oliver readjusted his udder and then they pushed the doorbell and insidious laughter rang out, followed by Bach’s ‘Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.’ The door slowly creaked open, and a vampire Connor stood before them. With a thick, Slavic accent, Connor spoke. “Velcome to my casile. Enter uf yur own fe-ree vill, and joy-een the fessssssstivities, my geests.”

Oliver handed Connor the DVD and said, “Gee, Connor. You feeling okay? You look anemic.” Connor raised his eyebrow and replied, “Perhaps I should stop by the blood bank for a withdrawal.” Oliver raised his eyebrow as well and said, “Maybe that would stop your coffin. Get it? Coffin? Coughing? Get it?”

Tired of their dorky banter, Molly tried to sneak by, but Connor grabbed her and pulled her close, and said, “I’ve never had farmer vintage,” and started to go for her neck, fangs extended.

“You like those teeth, bat-boy?” Oliver growled and Connor stopped, mid-lunge. “Perhaps I should stick to Bloody Mary’s tonight,” he answered. “Good choice,” Molly said as just patted them both on the cheeks, maneuvering into the house. Seeing each other across the dimly-lit room filled with an assortment of ghastly and goofy figures, both Molly and Reneé squealed in delight viewing their outfits (Reneé was dressed like a demented, bloody dental hygienist) and rushed to give each other hugs.

Connor and Oliver looked at each other with perplexed grimaces and then Connor took the case of Coors, and said to Oliver, “The good beers are in the fridge, bro. I’ll give this a good burial.” Oliver just smiled and shrugged and made his way down the dark hallway towards the kitchen.

Connor and Reneé had done a frighteningly effective job this year, decoration-wise. Cobwebs were in every corner, and spiders had been pasted to the walls and onto the doorknobs. They had even rented a fog machine that spewed out a smelly but impenetrable layer of mist across the floor. The whole house seemed like a macabre nightmare of ghoulishness and camp house design (D.R. Horton had helped them out on that one without permission). Vincent Price would have been proud of their efforts, truly.

In fact, it was so potent that Oliver felt a moment of youthful apprehension run down his spine and then felt even more terror when he looked at his bovine figure in the hall mirror. “Whoa. Time for a beer or three,” he said as he walked into the kitchen. This was the last time that Molly would pick out their costumes, he thought, prophetically.

The kitchen was filled with murky red light and instead of the typical bright-white refrigerator bulb flooding the room when he opened the door, a loud witch cackled with sadistic pleasure from within its dark space. Oliver fumbled inside to get a couple of beers and felt his fingers sink into some unknown goo before feeling the cold wetness of the bottles. He grabbed three brews and shut the door.

The unexpected mummy standing beside him caused Oliver to shriek out, “Crap!” and he almost dropped the beers.

“Hey, Oliver,” his friend Jack said, emotionless.

“Jeezus, Jack. You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry, pal,” Jack replied, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t feel good. I thought a drink might help.”

Oliver looked carefully through the reddish light and could see the dark circles under his friend’s blood-shot eyes. “Damn, bro. You don’t look good, either. Maybe Heather should take you home.”

Jack took one of Oliver’s beers, opened it, and took several slow gulps. Wiping his mouth and handing the beer back he said, “Yeah, Oliver. So thirsty. Had a bad day at work. Someone bi—“

Before he could finish, Molly rushed into the room and said, “Jack! You need to go help Heather. She’s in the bathroom, barfing.”

“Awesome,” Jack responded, followed with a deep sigh. “I feel like I’m on graveyard shift again.” Going to the counter to get a washcloth, Jack coughed hard for a moment and then spit out some darkish goo into the sink. With morbid curiosity, Oliver took a quick peek, but couldn’t tell if it was phlegm or blood because of the damn red light.

Wiping his own face first, Jack said, “Let’s go,” and walked out in front of her. On her way out, Oliver winked at Molly and said, “Just like college, eh?” Molly shook her head. She looked more worried than annoyed, but maybe it was just the lights, too. Oliver started to take a drink of the beer, but he stopped short and set the beer down on the counter, wondering if Jack’s sickness was catchy. Grabbing another bottle from the witch’s cackle cold cauldron, he moved to the living room to see what the others were doing.

It was as still as a boneyard. No one was talking. He saw several of his old friends sitting upon the couch and on the floor, eyes dully fixed on Wayne and Garth expounding upon their philosophy of life. Drake and Lara were dressed as King Arthur and Morgan Le Fay, George and his brother Frank were wearing Scooby Doo and Shaggy costumes, Pete and Marla were dressed up like Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf, and Rebekah and Jeremy dressed up like trashy teen rock idols, but he couldn’t remember the idols names (and didn’t care much to try to remember them anyway).

Standing at the door, Oliver loudly proclaimed, “Wow! Y’all really know how to party!” A few of them slowly turned their heads towards him and growled. Oliver held out his beers and said, “Anyone want one?” but he only heard more grunts and snarls. Oliver shook his head and concluded that these parties were getting deader and deader by the year.

A loud, nasty retching sound from the bathroom caught his attention and he went to see how Heather and Jack were doing. Before he could go inside, Molly exited the bathroom, closing it quickly behind her. “You don’t want to go in there,” she said, looking slightly greenish herself.

“Not good?” Oliver asked.

“Really bad. I’m not sure Jack is well enough to help Heather anymore. Have you seen Connor or Reneé?”

“Nope, but I can look around.”

Molly sweetly touched his forearm and said, “Thanks, love.”

Oliver closed his eyes and made a silly face. “You know that I would die for you, my dear.”

Molly pointed to the back of the house. “Go get them.”

Oliver saluted her and replied, “Moooooo-ing along, sir.”

Molly went back into the bathroom and Oliver could hear her speak comfortingly to Jack and Heather through the door, but he felt a fear building inside—whatever this flu was, he didn’t want them getting it and being dead on their feet with so much work to do next week.

He moved quickly from room to room, without success. Where the hell were they? He tried every room, even upstairs, but there was no sign of Connor or Reneé. The only place he hadn’t ventured into was their garage, but he had no idea what they were doing out there. His mind immediately flashed back to college days and the youthful desperate urges to make out anywhere and at anytime. He hoped his hosts weren’t reliving their past proclivities in the garage. He wanted to get them in the bathroom and Molly out, asap.

He knocked on the garage door, just in case, and called out, “Connor? Reneé?” No response, so he hit the light switch and a solitary light bulb flickered on in the big room, illuminating their gray Prius. He saw no one and began to wonder if they had gone out for more liquor when he saw the car rock a bit. The windows were tinted (thank God) so he couldn’t see inside, but he figured Connor and Reneé were in there, getting it on, just like they did at too many other parties once the booze hit and they got frisky.

“Hey! Lovebirds! You need to come inside and help one of your dying guests.”

Oliver heard low moaning from inside the cab and immediately turned his gaze away.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. Don’t mean to interrupt, but Heather and Jack are totally sick. Plus, Molly and I need to take off—lots of work for tomorrow.”

Oliver heard one of the doors open, but it felt too awkward to make eye-contact so he turned around.

“Thanks for the party, you two. Fun as usual,” Oliver said as he closed the door, his face redder than the kitchen light. “Well, that was uncomfortable,” he said to himself.

He headed back to the bathroom and saw Molly sitting down outside, a beer bottle by her side.

He stood beside her and said, “How are the typhoid twins?”

“Quiet,” Molly replied. “Sleeping it off, I think.”

Oliver chuckled and said, “I found Connor and Reneé in the garage…in the car…and they were making funny noises. I told them to come in and take care of Jack and Heather.”

Molly managed a smile and said, “That’s nice, love—Can we go home now? I have a terrible headache and I am so sleepy.”

“Oh, yes, please. Let’s leave this deathly domain of dullness,” Oliver said, happy to get home and remove his cattle costume. Molly reached up for a hand, and he obliged, pulling her up mostly with his own strength.

“Jeez, woman. How much did you drink?”

Molly leaned into him and said, “I just finished the beer you left on the counter. Not much.”

“You were warning me about drinking too much? I think you’ve had tee martoonies, ” Oliver said, chuckling.

“Uh huh,” was all Molly said in return.

Hugging her tightly, they walked to the front door and Oliver opened it. Molly slumped even harder against him, so Oliver picked her up in his arms, maneuvered outside without bumping her head or feet, and kicked the door to close it. Before it shut completely, he saw Reneé stumbling down the hallway.

Oliver managed to blurt out, “It was the party of a lifetime!” before the door closed.

Carrying his darling drunk farmer-wife to the car, he propped her against the KIA until he got the door opened and eased her inside. He shut her door, looked around, and removed his ridiculous cow outfit and tossed it onto the lawn. A trick on Connor and Reneé considering how bad the party was and how unlikely that he would get any treats from his wife in her present condition. He saw Connor lumbering toward them, but only waved as he shut his car door.

He started the car and drove off into the misty night without looking behind.

“That was a wasted night,” he said looking at his wife slumped against the passenger door. “It was sad that Howard and Sylvia didn’t make it—they make any party fun. And my costume was stupid. Next year, we’re going as James Bond and the chick from Resident Evil. I love you, babe, but this is one night of my life that I will never get back. I wish—“ but his words froze in his throat when he turned to see his wife’s ghastly green face inches away and moving closer, teeth barred, and blackish red drool spilling out.

His screams got lost in the screeching sounds of a KIA turning over and over, as it careened off the road into the dark, foggy night.