"It was an accident," the boy agrees.
Harlan says, "You didn't mean it," at the exact moment the boy blurts out, "I didn't mean it."
The boy says, "I only wanted a glowing jack-o'-lantern, like I'd seen in pictures. Not just a hollowed-out pumpkin."
Harlan says, "I understand."
The boy says, "My fault, my fault, my fault." But he lets go of that thought before Harlan has to intervene again, and continues, "My mother said a candle was too dangerous for a seven-year-old to play with, but I never wanted to play with it; I just wanted to make the pumpkin glow. I took a candle from the dining room table, and her lighter, and after she'd tucked me in, I got up again and set the candle in the pumpkin and lit it, and it looked just like I hoped it would. Then ... then..."
Harlan knows what the "then" is, but waits for the boy.
"Stupid," the boy says, "stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. The candle was too tall, and the pumpkin lid wouldn't fit on, and the curtain touched the flame—just the tiniest edge of it—and the next thing I knew, the curtains were on fire and there was this awful loud alarm, and there was smoke everywhere, and my mother was picking me up and carrying me out of the apartment." He looks at Harlan with eyes of wonder and horror. "We didn't know you were home in the upstairs apartment. Your parents' car wasn't in the driveway, and we thought you were with them."
Once more, the boy starts repeating, "Stupid, stupid..."
Harlan interrupts him, saying, "I don't hold this against you."
The boy doesn't believe him. The boy says, "You keep coming back."
Harlan corrects him: "You keep calling me back."
The boy thinks this over. The image of the burned room quivers, like a heat mirage, as the boy loosens his hold on it. He asks, "You don't hate me?"
Through the moonlit, burned bedroom, Harlan can make out another room—a basement. This is the room the boy is really in; the bedroom, the room where Harlan died, is only a memory. Harlan sees that what the boy's rope has really pulled down is not a burned beam, but one of the furnace's heat runs. There is a ceiling, but no wallpaper, no charred remains.
"Live a good life," Harlan advises him.
Sometime during this brief exchange, the cat has come back, and Harlan scoops it up and carries it back where it belongs.
Where they both belong.
"Lead a good life," Harlan repeats to the boy, and never looks back.
Vivian Vande Velde, All Hallows' Eve: 13 Stories
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