She roams the county highway, going north on 290. No one ever sees her face, unless they are in front of her.

And if they are,

they're already dead.

Headlights catch the back of her plenty; going south on the county's 290, where she walks the faded white line, tempting the lanes in bare feet at twelve midnight once a year. For a flicker she appears. A static shape. Mist in the dark. Her body flat as a child's and deader than the squirrels that fester, squashed, on the road's hefty shoulders.

Drivers swerve, but the rear-view mirror never catches a glimpse. A mercy. Because, if it does,

they're already dead.

• • •

It was a tradition.

But it was my family's tradition, which meant it was ten times dumber than your average tradition. Traditionally, a tradition could include turkey and stuffing or hiding shit all over the house for eight days or painting eggs pink because a rabbit left you chocolate in a basket.

My family's tradition wasn't bound to holidays or birthday rituals like hot dogs and ice cream in December. My family's tradition was hereditary.

The Cunninghams' were fortune tellers.

And it smoked balls, three-hundred and sixty-four days outta the year.

But it was my dumb tradition, or rather, my mom's dumb tradition. And I made good use of it on the one day a year, people actually thought fortune tellers were ace.

So on Halloween night, when Wilton Groves said "Hey, let's go visit the gypsy," I said, "Sure thing," and didn't correct him. We weren't gypsies, my mom was from Dallas, but Wilton was a Ghoul. The Ghoul. He ran with a crowd so tight, you couldn't squeeze a dime between them. And when he wanted something, he damn well got it with a Coke and a side of fries.

Nobody ever told him no. Nobody ever told him he was wrong.

Besides, it was that time of year...

I only had one problem: Mom. My plan to snake-charm the most popular gang in high school rested on her bird-like shoulders.

My mom never understood the nuances of social climbing. She was content to wallow on the front stoop of insignificance. Halloween was the time people went Lollapalooza over shit like séances and tarot cards—but my mom always locked up early. She could be King Kong of the senior class mystic experience. But. No.

She—the only fortune teller in Fallow County—wanted to get home early on Halloween. Every other work day she closed at seven o'clock. But not today. "We don't take 290 after dark on All Hallows,'" she said, turning the key on her rinky-dink shop at four on the dot.

We had to take 290 to get home because we lived on the side of the mountain like Davy-everloving-Crocket, and not in town like civilized people.

That was her only rule. Except for the Cunningham Clause. The one that said clear as ice: fortunes were never to be read for family. She didn't make that clause up, though, so it wasn't really her rule—it was tradition. Strangers got a peek at their futures for thirty bucks a half hour. But I couldn't even ask what was for dinner before five-fifteen.

As I said. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

I left Wilton and the rest of his Ghouls on the sidewalk when we got to Mom's shop; a red brick building she shared with a jeweler. The entrance was a skinny side door that stuck on the hinges. And unlike Steven's spacious place next door—he had his own hanging sign done up nice in block letters—Mom had a small front parlor, a single window, a sun-aged paper poster, and a bead curtain.

Low-down-crappy was what people wanted to see, though. Otherwise, they thought you were snaking their money for personal comforts. Which we were. But people only got bent by the things right in front of their faces. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

The bell jingled as I wrestled the door backward on uneven floorboards. Across the street, the stucco Super Service flushed the smell of gasoline and brake grease into the bitter air. I was glad to be inside. Cars and motorcycles. Were. Not. My. Jam.

At all.

The Ghouls, on the other hand, sucked back exhaust fumes like a huff of Adam's Grey Trailer Spray. They'd be fine.

I found Mom, busily searching her purse. The polished leather slumped on the round table in the parlor, dispensing its guts all over the plum table drapes. It was a brand new handbag, expensive. Sixty-bucks a pop. Dad paid for it, which meant he'd done something he didn't want Mom figuring out. Mom's not psychic. But Dad never took chances.

He's a genius. It's not like a handbag with its own leather-wrapped lighter and powder box was suspicious at all.

Mom lost the complimentary lipstick holder on day one.

"Good Lord, Jacky!" she said, startling up straight as I entered. Her ash-colored skirt suit and matching plush gloves made her out like she was a regular gal.

What a joke.

I pushed my hands deep into the pockets of my black leather kit and tented one flap of my jacket toward the front hallway. "Sorry, the bell rang. I was at Eddie's and I thought I'd drop by."

"Good," she said, pulling a pair of ignition keys from the disheveled bag. She held them high, victorious. "I'm closing now. You can ride home with me, then."

"Uh, um, no. I can't."

"Why not?" she asked, then she really looked at me over the tangle of keys and changed her question. "What in Heaven's name are you wearing?"

I turned just enough to let her see the emblem sewn between the valley of my shoulder blades: a cartoonish monster, half skull and broken teeth, flesh rotting. I wore it proudly. Even if it was a temporary loan. I'd earned it. Weeks of servitude to the Almighty Wilton; cleaning boots, fetching lunches, leaving dogshit in Principle Fuzz's office—

I was more a ghoul than Wilton ever would be. He chose the name because he thought it was cool beans, while I was one roached spine short of lolloping after his ass, slavering "Master, Master" and clutching a goblet of blood.

Halloween was my graduation. Pass the final test and this jacket—and my place among the other five vampire overlords that ruled the perfunctory halls of Fallow High—were mine. Forever.

And my mom wasn't gonna mess with my future.

"I brought some friends," I blurted out, less buttered than I intended.

Mom's knuckles dropped to the table top. She squeezed the keys in her fist. "No, Jack."

"But—"

"No."

I drew a breath and met her gaze. Traces of heavy blue eye shadow and bright rogue lit up her face like Eddie's neon "Diner" sign. She'd scrubbed off most of her garish makeup in the washroom at the rear of the shop, preparation for meeting the rest of humanity. Not just the kooks, mooks, and underage hooligans that usually frequented her cramped granny-parlor.

"It won't be like last time."

She chewed her cheek, creaming the soft parts inside with her molars. Last time, it was The Stompers. A guys and dolls gang with more hair tonic and bubblegum than the whole of Fallow County. I'd hooked my line to them first for my entire junior year. Circling their social sphere, reeling and tugging, until I'd captured their attention one fall day with five little words: "My mom's a fortune teller."

We stayed too late that time. Well past eleven o'clock. Mom and I spent the night here—me on the rugs, her on the ancient Victorian couch that still sat, slowly dying, under the front windowsill to her right.

Holly Stein, one of The Stomper girls, died on 290 after she left Mom's shop. An accident. She was walking home—a shortcut through the woods and over the guardrail—when a car flattened her from behind.

A hit and run the Sheriff said. But I saw the newspaper photos—before they were recalled and the chief editor was fired and sued by the Stiens'—the driver must have backed over her a few times. Holly'd looked like chop meat from the freezer section.

I shortened the distance between mom and me, my weight creaking the sloped floor. My fingers ventured from my jacket pockets to squeeze her shoulders.

I was so much taller than her, it was funny. "Mom, please. It's worth my life."

She looked out the shop window. The bead curtain, strung like a hundred glass eyeballs, hashed our view. On the curb, Wilton lounged against his parked 6T Thunderbird, inspecting his cuticles. The rest of the gang spread about: Tony and Ron took turns balancing on the fire hydrant like blockheads while Big L swept a comb through his greasy black pomp.

No dolls in this gang. Not unless you counted Big L and his obsession with his hair.

The keys thunked on the table and she tossed up her hands. "Fine, baby-boy. Bring them in if it will save your life."

I grinned and capped her smooth forehead with a kiss. "Thank you, Mommy."

"Mmm—wait." She snagged my sweater front before I could slip away. "Remember, Jacky. We don't take 290 after dark on All Hallows'."

I nodded. "Yeah, yeah. I know. We won't be here that long. I'll tell them you'll only do one trick—the flame one, that'll do 'em. They'll think it's boss that you're, you know, magic."

She rolled her eyes and sighed, scraping her purse back together. "Give me a minute."

It was easy to lie to her. I'd honed the practice when I was small and testing the limits of her "powers."

Mom wasn't psychic.

A mercy. Because county highway 290, was exactly where I needed to be this All Hallows' Eve.

• • •

The wheel spins lazily in its fork, forced out of shape and crooked as the teeth she gnashes together. Steam hisses from perforated, metallic bowels. Choking the night in oily mist. She lumbers toward the twist of metal and bone; her uneven gait grinds broken glass under her bluish heel.

A wild screech. Sparks like enemy flak in the dark. It was the sounds—and the sights—that lured her from the straggly forest.

Every year the world opens, doorways thin as tissues. And sometimes, it gives her a gift. This year, the hard plated belly left flakes of gold skin on the pavement. The softer, more human body, left spatters of red—raspberry cordial that makes the blacktop glisten. Sweating in the moonlight.

She reaches down, knees straight, and picks up a severed finger to taste.

• • •

Mom never understood the nuances of social climbing.

If she did, she might have had the decency to look ashamed when asking all six Ghouls to squeeze in, cheek to cheek—and not in the dancing sorta way—onto the decaying pink couch.

I, on the other hand, had the decency not to stare down the line at each boy in rough, black, leather, sitting tight-kneed with their mitts laid awkwardly in their laps. Instead, I hugged an elbow over the couch's wanly padded scroll arm, and bit my nails—eyes glued to my mom, willing her not to be dumb.

Mom sat across from us on a stool; still wearing her gray suit, ankles crossed demurely, holding a box of matches. The Madame Mystic routine advertised on the bleached poster in the front window had been exorcised for expediency. I'd helped her shift the round table back enough to reveal a goodly patch of floor, where four pairs of dusty Wesco boots now rested neatly in a row. My ratty Converse sneakers tapped out of line, knee bouncing. A fat pillar candle—blacker than fresh roof shingles—stood at attention on the hole-y rug. Bulbous, waxy growths, like crinkled vines, sculpted the sides.

One trick, then we'll go.

Wilton made a point of stopping me when I came back out to invite them in. He didn't grab me like mom had, he didn't need to. A flinch of his head toward the curb was enough. The other boys shuffled inside as he slid a cigarette from his jacket pocket and flipped a gold lighter.

"Mom won't let you smoke in her parlor."

I said it quick, like ripping off a Band-Aid. He stared at me, the yellow flame begging to lick the rolled paper separating his thin lips.

The breeze snuffled dry leaves out of hiding, whisking them across the sidewalk.

Wilton clicked the lighter shut and tucked the unlit cigarette behind his ear. "Wouldn't dream of upsetting yourmama." He smooshed the words together and grinned. A cold grin; one that made me wonder if, on any other day, he might have lit the damn thing just to stamp it out on my shoulder.

"You ready for tonight?" he asked. "No wimping out."

I said, "Yes, of course," because I wanted my jacket and my official place in his social sphere. Which is why I didn't ram a good one up into his ribs to stop him ogling my mom's stockinged legs once we were sardined on the couch.

No. We were too close for elbowing. I'd rather punch him in the crotch anyway.

No...

"Your Jacky's friends, from school?" Mom said.

NO!

The cushions huffed loudly under me as I lurched forward. But before I could open my mouth to chastise her choice of words, Wilton spoke up.

"Yeah, we're Jacky's friends. From school." He said my name like a dirty secret. I wanted to know then and there what he found so funny. "And you're Mrs. C, Jacky's Magic Mum, who's going to read my future."

Again. Crotch.

I froze; shoulders hunched, hands cupping my chin. My toes kept on tapping, rivaling Fred Astaire. But Mom just smiled. "Yes, while most mothers have eyes in the back of their heads, I can melt yours clean out of their sockets." She popped open the matchbox tray. "So why a ghoul?"

Okay...maybe mom wasn't so dumb. Wilton seemed hard pressed to answer. His gaze swept the room, taking in the hanging drapes and crystal balls and the shitload of yard sale crap my mom had collected to make this place look mysterious. He was no doubt gauging how truthful Mom was. And if she really could melt his eyeballs.

With all the candles and dried petals strewn about, the whole place smelled a la witchy-boudoir. Like it would hex you if you sneezed. Not that I knew what a boudoir was, though, it was something I heard Mom say once.

Ron reached behind Big L to punch Wilton's arm, snapping him out of his indolent daze. I guess being Wilt's brother, he could do that sort of thing and keep his face.

"Uh, the highway chick." Wilton coughed. "You know, the ghost story about the kid who got hit by the car on Halloween and died and now eats people—"

"She's not a ghost," said Mom. "And she's not dead."

He gave her a blank look. "Uh...Okay, whatever. We're named after that story."

Mom pulled a matchstick out. "How lovely. Shall we begin?" She lifted her foot, dainty as a kitten, and struck the flame on the sole of her pump. Bending over, she lit the candle wick.

"In ancient times a person would jump over a burning candle to determine their future. If the flame remained lit, good fortune would follow them. But if it blew out..."

"They farted." Tony sniggered.

"...then bad fortune would befall them." Mom finished, unperturbed.

"What kind of bad fortune?" Wilton asked not bothering to hide his amused smirk.

Mom looked him square in the eye, "Usually, death." There was a profound pause, during which I swear I could see her aura turn red, then she added, sweet as pie, "would you like to go first?"

Wilton's eyebrow nearly shot off his face. "You want me to jump? Over a candle?"

"You asked me to read your fortune."

Wilton frowned, watching her, suspicious. As if this entire scenario had been concocted to make him look like a blockhead.

He backhanded Big L in the chest. "Jump the candle, dufus."

"Right, man."

The couch sucked us in as Big L wiggled loose. He wasn't any special kind of big, it just sounded better than calling him Small L, but at the moment, you couldn't tell the difference. His departure left a crater. I held the couch arm tighter, trying not to pop into Wilton's lap.

"Ready?" Mom said.

Big L stood in front of the candle, palming his comb through the poof on his head for luck.

Then he bowed to us Ghouls and jumped.

• • •

She eats her fill; squatting on her haunches in her rag-dress and scarred knees. Her filthy blonde hair is in tight curls, and she can still count all ten of her toes and fingers. But she is much older than the childish body she lives in, and soon the Sidhe will call her back—back to her chamber under their Hill. Until then, she eats her hunger away. Her pale, pale skin washed to the elbows in a dead boy's blood.

• • •

They went in order: Big L, Tony, Ron, and Wilton. Each one landing heavier than the next, rattling the shelves on the walls as if they were trying to bring the shop bric-a-brac and the second-floor apartment down on our heads.

After each jump, the result was always the same: the candle stayed lit.

So, they tried again. And again. And. Again. Whether they liked tempting fate or thought Mom was a fraud with a messed-up candle, I didn't know.

But Mom wasn't a fraud. She'd even kept her maiden name because "tradition" dictated she should. And dad didn't care, because she helped him on poker nights by telling him who would win.

Dad wasn't a Cunningham by blood, not like me. She could tell his fortune. She didn't tell him anything else.

Mom wasn't a big share-er.

When they finally grew bored of hopping and shouting and laughing, the Ghouls collapsed on the couch beside me.

Wilton slapped my knee, "Your turn, Jacky."

He might as well have shot a firecracker off in my ear. His words scared me bad enough I nearly peed.

"No—" Mom started, shaking her head.

But I interrupted her, "Sure thing." Because when Wilton wanted something, he damn well got it with a Coke and a side of fries. I had one more test to go. I'd come too far...

Besides, they were including me.

And while I didn't doubt Mom, I found the science dodgy. She was right every Tuesday with Dad's poker buddies—Mr. Clayton always won. But who's to say he wasn't cheating? Mom never did. And it wasn't like the "family rule" came with any dire warnings. For all I knew, Mom telling my future could set me up as the next president of the United States. And giving me the unfair advantage of foresight was the no-no.

The black candle was lit on the floor. It seemed I was gonna break both her rules tonight.

The Ghouls egged me on from the hideous, old-lady couch, slapping their knees and chanting in unison:

"Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. And Jack—"

Mom tried to stop me.

I jumped.

• • •

She roams the county highway, going north on 290. Behind her, a 6T Thunderbird motorcycle lies mangled on the faded white line, tangled with a corpse: A boy in a black leather jacket.

At dawn, she'll disappear; leaving her half-eaten plate for the Sheriff. Fallow County would believe his story: an initiation prank gone wrong, a freak accident. There'll be no photographers this time. The Steins' made sure of that.

The Ghouls would be questioned, of course, and Wilton Groves would lose his license.

Next year, she'd be back again.

But for now, her feet slap the tarmac in a used pair of sneakers, worn and bloody, three sizes too large. She leaves sticky footprints as she takes the hill, walking off her meal on the way home.

♛ A/N: Happy Halloween, guys and ghouls! I want to thank everyone who reads, ★ votes ★, or comments on these stories. You are THE BEST!

This short is dedicated to spite-, who has been more than encouraging. Your comments make me smile and I'm thrilled your zomb-eh novel has been selected by WalkingDeadRoadtoSurvival! Everyone, go and read it NOW. *she says politely*