Can you believe it's October?
It's been four months since I retired. We had great things planned: travel, concerts, excursions to the beach or to wine country, Disneyland. Of course, all of that went out the window with COVID. Instead, I spend a good part of my day watching television programs from my long-ago childhood on MeTV.
Yesterday's programs all had a Halloween theme. I watched an episode of Perry Mason in which the killer disguised himself as a trick-or-treater, and an episode of Leave It to Beaver in which young Theodore "Beaver" Cleaver believed that the nice old lady who had just moved into the neighborhood was a witch. That reminded me of a short story I wrote about thirty years ago, when I was still pursuing my dream of becoming a published writer—a dream I gave up when the magazine that finally agreed to publish one of my stories went out of business immediately after I signed the contract.
I still write stories from time to time, but I no longer try to sell them. I've posted some of them here, where people can read them for nothing. That may be all this one is worth. Certainly nobody ever offered to buy it. And, as you will discover, the plot is hardly original. Still, when I found it, dusted it off, and read it again, it didn't seem half bad. I polished it a little and fixed a few things. (When I wrote it, there were no AMBER alerts, and hardly anyone owned a cell phone.) It's not terribly scary, but maybe it will briefly take your mind off the real-life horrors of current events.
Happy Halloween!
Mrs. Bean
by John R. Logue
"But Mo-om!" Gretchen Anderson whined, "Mrs. Bean is creepy, and she smells funny. And it's so boring at her house. She doesn't even have cable!"
"Now, Gretchen, we discussed this before. Grandma Kinsey's still in the hospital. Mrs. Bean is the only babysitter I could find."
"But why do we need a babysitter, Mom? I'm old enough to look after Andy. Honest!"
"Nine years old is not old enough to babysit."
"Mrs. Carpenter lets Amy, and she's younger than I am. I'm almost ten. Come on, Mom—please?"
"I don't care what Mrs. Carpenter does. With all of these children disappearing I won't leave you home alone. Now get your coats."
"But Mrs. Bean is horrible!"
"Gretchen! I will not allow you to talk that way! Mrs. Bean is a nice old lady. She's always saying how much she loves children. "
"She's an old witch!"
"Nonsense! Now, I don't have time for this. The PTA meeting starts in half an hour. Get your brother's and your coats this instant, or I'm calling your father."
"Come on, Andy," Gretchen sighed, heading for the hall closet. "We're going to Mrs. Bean's."
"Cookie!" Andy gurgled, happily. The prospect of Mrs. Bean didn't seem to bother him in the least.
"Yeah, I'm sure she'll have cookies," said Gretchen.
She didn't tell her mother what some of the kids said about Mrs. Bean. She knew that if she did, her mother would be furious.
A few blocks away, Mrs. Bean was saying goodbye to a visitor.
"Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Bean," said Detective Folger. "I'm sorry to have bothered you. I know how upsetting this is for you. You were very fond of the Ames boy weren't you?"
"Poor Franky! Such a sweet child!"
"Try to remember, Mrs. Bean. Did you see anyone on the street that day? Anybody who might have been waiting for Franky when he left your house?"
"I don't remember anyone."
"Well, if you do remember anything, give us a call."
"I certainly will, Detective Folger. You will find Franky, won't you?"
"I'm sure we will. We've issued an AMBER alert, of course, and we're looking for Franky's father. Nine out of ten of these cases, it turns out to be an estranged parent."
"If there's anything else I can do, you let me know."
"There is one thing—"
"Yes?"
"The recipe for that casserole."
"Now, Detective Folger. Like I told you, it's an old family secret."
"Just tell me, was it chicken?"
"I'm glad you liked it. You must come to dinner again some time, under more pleasant circumstances."
"Thank you; I'll do that. Goodbye, Mrs. Bean."
"Goodbye, Detective Folger."
Mrs. Bean was, as always, delighted to see Gretchen and Andy. "Such sweet children! Come give me a big kiss!"
Andy, never shy, rushed into her arms. Gretchen hated Mrs. Bean's wet, slobbery kisses. She hung back until her mother gave her a stern look and a push towards Mrs. Bean.
"Hello," Gretchen said flatly. She gave the old woman a quick peck on the cheek and tried to dodge her grasp, but Mrs. Bean was too quick for her.
"Do you call that a kiss?" she asked, holding Gretchen tightly. Her clothes smelled like moth balls and dead flowers, her breath like sour milk. Gretchen felt as though she would suffocate.
Mrs. Bean kissed Gretchen's mouth, then both cheeks. "There!" she said, laughing. "That's what I call a kiss!"
"You two behave yourselves," said Mrs. Anderson sternly, catching Gretchen's eye. "Mrs. Bean, you have my phone number, in case you need to reach me. The PTA meeting should be over by ten."
"Don't you worry about a thing, Mrs. Anderson. I'll take good care of them."
"Oh, I know you will. I've got to go, now. See you in a couple of hours."
"Goodbye," said Mrs. Bean.
"Bye-bye," said Andy, waving happily.
"Bye, Mom," said Gretchen, her throat tightening.
She wondered if she would never see her mother again.
At the school, Mr. Howard, the principal, introduced Mrs. Anderson to the guest speaker. "Detective Folger, this is our PTA president, Mrs. Anderson."
"It's a pleasure, Mrs. Anderson."
"Thank you so much for coming, Detective Folger. Do the police have any leads at all?"
"I'm afraid we're still pretty much in the dark."
"Well, perhaps you can give us some advice tonight as to how we can better protect our children."
"I'll try. The best advice is to never leave them alone, and only leave them with someone you can trust completely."
"Yes, of course," said Mrs. Anderson. "Thank goodness for people like Mrs. Bean."
"Mrs. Bean?"
"My babysitter. She's just wonderful with children."
"Oh, I know Mrs. Bean," said Detective Folger. "As a matter of fact, I had dinner with her this evening."
"You know what the children say about Mrs. Bean, don't you?" said Mr. Howard.
"What?" asked Mrs. Anderson.
"They say she eats children," said Mr. Howard, winking.
Everyone laughed.
As tempted as she was by the Anderson children, Mrs. Bean vowed to never again make the mistake she had made with Franky Ames. Her usual practice was to lure children to her house on their way home from school—the stragglers—plump, lonely children who were easily tempted by cookies and cakes. Franky could have used a little more fattening, and in any case she should have waited for a safer time. But the Johnson boy just hadn't lasted as long as she'd thought he would.
Now she was almost out of Franky. She wished she hadn't shared him with Detective Folger, but how she had enjoyed the joke! She got the idea from an old television show, where a murderer fed the detective the leg of lamb she'd used to brain her husband. She'd improved on the joke by feeding Folger the actual victim!
But now she had to be more careful. The Anderson boy was fattening up nicely. Too bad the girl was so skinny.
"Sure you won't have another piece of cake, Gretchen?" Mrs. Bean asked sweetly.
"No, thank you," replied Gretchen. "Mother doesn't like us to eat too many sweets."
"But your mother isn't here now, is she?"
Gretchen looked at the clock. "She'll be here soon."
She hoped it would be soon enough.
At ten o'clock, right on schedule, Mrs. Anderson arrived to pick up her children. Andy, who had fallen asleep in the middle of his third piece of chocolate cake, had to be carried to the car.
"Did Mrs. Bean beat you?" Gretchen's mother asked her in the car.
"No."
"Did she torture you?"
"No. She gave us cake."
"I'm going to have to talk to her about that. It's nice of her to give you all those sweets, but she doesn't have to pay the dentist bill."
"We won't have to go to Mrs. Bean's on Monday, will we, Mom? Grandma Kinsey will be back by then, won't she?"
"Gretchen! You're not still afraid of Mrs. Bean, are you?"
"No," Gretchen lied. "But I miss Grandma Kinsey."
"Well, she should be able to go home tomorrow."
"Good. Mom?"
"What, Dear?"
"Remember that story you used to read us about Hansel and Gretel?"
"Yes, what about it?"
"Would you read it to me again sometime?"
"You can read it yourself, now," Mrs. Anderson replied, laughing.
"I know, but it's better when you read it."
"All right, Dear," said Mrs. Anderson.
She supposed this was just another phase her daughter was going through.
On Monday, just before the final bell, Gretchen's teacher gave her a message from her mother to pick up Andy at the daycare.
Most days, Gretchen went straight from school to her grandmother's house, and her mother picked up Andy on her way home from work. But the daycare closed at six, so when Mrs. Anderson had to work late, Gretchen had to pick up Andy, then go to Grandma Kinsey's. The direct route from the daycare to Grandma Kinsey's led past Mrs. Bean's house. Gretchen considered taking a more roundabout way, but she had strict instructions to go straight to Grandma Kinsey's. And why should she be afraid in broad daylight?
Mrs. Bean was sitting on her front porch, rocking. "Gretchen! Andy!" she sang out, waving.
"Hi!" Andy shouted, veering towards her. The prospect of sugary baked goods drew him like a magnet.
"We've got to get to my grandmother's house," Gretchen said, tugging Andy's arm. She wished she was big enough to pick him up and run.
"Surely you have time to stop for a chocolate chip cookie?" Mrs. Bean asked, rising from her chair.
"Cookie!" Andy shouted, breaking free. Gretchen watched in horror as he ran to Mrs. Bean. The old woman swept him up in her arms, laughing.
"Come inside, Sweethearts!" she called, disappearing through the door.
Gretchen looked around her for help, but she saw no one. She considered running to her grandmother's, but what could Grandma Kinsey do? And what would Gretchen tell her? Who would believe that Andy had been taken by that nice old lady, Mrs. Bean? Besides, maybe she was wrong about Mrs. Bean. Maybe Andy was in there, at her kitchen table, happily gorging himself sick on chocolate chip cookies. In any case, she couldn't leave her brother. He was her responsibility. With her heart pounding in her ears, she followed them into the house.
It was dark inside, and quiet. She tiptoed to the back of the house. The kitchen and dining room were empty. She returned to the living room and was about to go upstairs, when she heard a strange noise coming from the cellar.
Gretchen knew Mrs. Bean had a cellar, but she had never seen it. It was the one part of the house that was always kept locked. Gretchen tried the knob. It wasn't locked now. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, afraid to go on, but even more afraid of what might be happening to Andy. What was that noise? She took a deep breath, and started down the stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs was another kitchen—a bigger one, with a big freezer, a big oven, and a big stove, on top of which sat a big iron pot. Mrs. Bean stood at the counter, her back to Gretchen, sharpening a big knife at a grinding stone, which explained the sound. Next to her, Andy sat on the counter, swinging his legs and eating a cookie.
Gretchen put her finger to her lips, signaling Andy to be quiet, but it was too late.
"Gresh!" he cried happily, waving his cookie.
"There you are, my dear," Mrs. Bean said without turning around. "I was beginning to worry about you."
"It's true, isn't it?" Gretchen whispered.
"What's true?" Mrs. Bean asked, turning to face Gretchen, the knife gleaming in her hand.
"You eat children."
"Oh, my dear!" Mrs. Bean laughed. "Where did you ever get such an idea? Now why don't you come over here and help Andy and me? We were just about to make a batch of cookies."
"Cookies, Gresh!" urged Andy. He couldn't understand why his sister didn't want to join in the fun.
The old woman took a step towards her, and Gretchen backed away.
"Now, now, my sweet," Mrs. Bean said softly, "There's nothing to be frightened of. You know I wouldn't hurt you. I love children."
Gretchen felt heat behind her; she had backed into the big stove. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the pot, which was filled with water, was beginning to boil.
"It's all right, my sweet," Mrs. Bean said in a voice like syrup. "This won't hurt a bit. I promise."
As the old woman came towards her, Gretchen stared at the knife, hypnotized. Mrs. Bean held it perfectly steadily, perfectly horizontally, precisely level with Gretchen's neck.
"She's going to cut my head off," Gretchen thought, with an eerie calm.
It was Andy who saved her. He finally sensed that something was wrong and burst into tears. Mrs. Bean turned, distracted, and Gretchen awoke from her stupor. She grabbed the only weapon wihin reach, the pot of boiling water on the stove. Wincing in pain as the hot metal seared her bare hands, she turned and hurled it. It hit Mrs. Bean in the face just as she turned back to Gretchen. She dropped the knife and fell to the floor, screaming.
Gretchen yanked her wailing brother off the counter, and half carried, half dragged him up the stairs and out of the house.
Mrs. Bean died without regaining consciousness, but enough of Franky Ames was found in her freezer to corroborate Gretchen's story. Gretchen's burns soon healed, and she became the neighborhood hero. Stories of her ordeal quickly spread, improved upon in various ways. According to one version, she had pushed the wicked old woman into an enormous pot of boiling water. Neighbors jokingly asked her for her recipe for "Bean soup."
And her mother decided that maybe—just maybe—nearly ten years old was old enough to babysit, after all.
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