The Unmistakable Fingernail

The school cafeteria of Ashbury Middle School rang with the cacophony of a hundred middle schoolers vying for their lunch. Crepe paper hung from the ceiling in shades of orange and black, the colors accented by paper pumpkins taped to the wall and the latest edition of Halloween hits crooning from the cafeteria's loudspeakers, encouraging the children to 'do the Monster Mash.' Back at the lunch line, four boys waited impatiently at the counter, their attire resembling pirates getting ready to set sail on the turbulent seas.

Jeremy, a tall, lanky boy, nudged Bobby, the blond boy standing beside him. He nodded up at the lunch lady dishing out that day's lunch. "Hey, look, Old Lady Doris is back."

"I thought they fired her," Bobby replied.

A short and round-shaped boy with red hair paled. "She's back?"

"What? You still scared of her, Eric?"

"No. It's just..." He glanced at Jeremy.

"Just what? Come on, spit it out."

"Yeah, don't be a baby." Bobby sneered.

"Oh, baby Eric is scared of the lunch lady."

"I am not."

"You know what I heard? She eats little kids." The fourth boy, Chris, stepped forward, a smirk on his face.

Jeremy laughed. "Yeah, especially little cry-babies."

"She grinds them up."

"Seasons them with a little salt."

"And then she serves them for lunch."

"She does not."

"Wanna bet?"

"I know where she lives," Chris taunted

"No you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"It's true. He does," Bobby nodded.

Jeremy grinned. "I bet you wouldn't be able to step one foot on her property."

"He's too chicken"

"He'd start crying."

"Blubbering for his mommy."

"Cry-baby, Eric wants his mommy."

"Stop it! I'm not a cry-baby, and I would be able to step on her property. I'll even ring her doorbell," Eric countered, trying to sound brave.

"You promise?"

"Yeah, I promise."

"Hey, you four, stop holding up the line." Old Lady Doris gestured at them with her serving ladle, her portly and bristled features frowning.

The four boys jumped, scrambling over each other, proffering their cafeteria trays, Old Lady Doris slopping some unidentifiable form of food onto their plates.

That night, as the trick-or-treating began to wind down along with the sun, Eric, Jeremy, Chris and Bobby came to a stop before an unassuming house, all the blinds drawn. A gnarled, old crabapple tree hung over the front walk, the ground peppered with fallen crabapples. Tacked to the front door, "No Candy, Go Away!" kept all children away that night, all except the four boys.

"I heard she kills and grinds them up in her basement."

"Yeah, I've heard the screams."

"Stop it."

"It's true. I have."

"Well, we're here, Eric. Come on."

Dropping his pillowcase filled with candy to the sidewalk, Eric glanced back at his three friends hesitantly before reaching for the gate. "It's locked," he said, giving the gate a gentle shake.

"The latch, you idiot." Jeremy pushed Eric out of the way and unlatched the front gate.

"You're such a wuss," Bobby contributed.

"Shut up," Eric shot back, steeling himself for the trek across Old Lady Doris' lawn and up her front steps.

"Well, we're waiting."

"I'm going, I'm going," he said, stepping one foot onto the stretch of pavement that was officially on the lunch lady's property. When nothing happened, Eric let out a breath of air, taking more steps to follow. As he passed under the crabapple tree, the wind picked up, raining tiny, pelting crabapples down on his head. Wincing, Eric covered his head and made a dash for the house. Coming to the first step, he screeched to a halt, staring up at the five steps as if they were a mountain. Nervously, he glanced back at his friends waiting at the fence.

At the gate, Jeremy, Chris and Bobby watched as Eric stalled, one hand reaching out for the railing before snatching it back.

"Eric, hurry up."

"Yeah, unless you're too big of a baby."

"Just ring the damn doorbell."

"Jeez, I'm doing it," Eric shouted back, climbing the steps. Reaching the top, he paused. "There's no doorbell."

"What do you mean there's no doorbell?" Jeremy yelled. "Of course there's a doorbell."

"Well, there's no doorbell." He shrugged.

"Then knock on her door."

"Knock on her door? No, the deal was that I'd ring her door..."

The front door squeaked open. He froze. A hand reached out and grabbed Eric's shirt, yanking the boy inside the house, the door slamming.

Jeremy, Chris and Bobby stood stock still, their eyes flicking between each other and the house. It took only one moment for them to make an unspoken decision before they took off screaming in the opposite direction. Four blocks later, they came to a panting stop under a streetlight.

"We should go back for him," Chris insisted, hands braced on his knees. "Who knows what she'll do to him."

"Those are all legends, dorkwad," Jeremy said. "Plus, my mom wants me home for dinner."

"Yeah, he'll be fine," Bobby said, shrugging.

Chris nodded. "Yeah, you're right," he said. "See you all tomorrow?"

The next day, the cafeteria was again thumping with the noise of a hundred middle schoolers waiting for their lunch. Jeremy, Chris and Bobby stood nervously in line, Eric's absence sticking out like a sore thumb. Feet shuffling anxiously, they followed the line as it edged forward bit by bit. As they approached Old Lady Doris, her hairnet sitting cockeyed upon her head that day, she leered down at them.

"Hello, boys."

They held up their trays.

"I've got an extra special lunch for you all today," she continued on. "I won't tell you my secret ingredient, but I bet you could guess." Her eyes glinted as she ladled up what looked like beef stew and sloshed it across their plates. "Enjoy!"

Horrified, they proceeded to their normal lunch table, sat down, and stared into the murky stew.

After a moment, Jeremy reached into the stew with his fingers and fished something out. "This isn't what I think it is, is it?"

Bobby gulped and turned green around the edges. "No, of course not."

"Couldn't be," Chris followed, pushing his tray to the side.

Jeremy nodded. "It's just a piece of gristle."

"Yeah, or an onion."

"It's definitely an onion."

"Couldn't be anything else."

But what none of them wanted to say, but what they all knew, was that what Jeremy held in his fingers was not gristle or a chunk of onion, but unmistakably a fingernail.