The Lawson family had a problem. Well, as a family of banshees living in a crowded trailer park, they had several problems (mostly noise complaints, shattered glassware, and the occasional unintentional summoning of restless spirits), but the current crisis involved their daughter, Emily.
She came home from school with a flyer clutched in her hands and stars in her eyes.
"MOM! DAD! They're doing a talent show at school and I've entered! I'm going to sing for the town!"
Emily was fourteen, with her mother's shock of red hair and her father's tendency to get overly emotional about things.
"I'll be on the STAGE!"
Mrs. Lawson looked up from the sink where she was carefully washing dishes, her face freezing into a mask of polite panic. "Honey, that's wonderful, but… you know how your voice gets when you're excited."
"I'll be careful!" Emily insisted, vibrating with enthusiasm. "I've been practicing! Listen—"
She opened her mouth to demonstrate.
"NO!"
Both parents shouted in unison, hands flying to their ears. The family dog (a deaf pug named Snuffles) slept on, unbothered.
Emily's face fell. "I just want to be normal."
Mr. Lawson—a tall, thin man who worked as an accountant and had the perpetual, flinching look of someone who'd heard too many loud noises—put a comforting hand on his daughter's shoulder.
"You are normal, sweetheart. You're just… vocally challenged."
"We prefer vocally gifted," Mrs. Lawson corrected gently, which was the family's preferred euphemism for their banshee heritage.
"How am I supposed to be in a musical if I can't even sing without shattering glass?" Emily asked, her voice trembling. A teacup on the counter cracked down the middle.
The family sat in troubled silence, contemplating this very valid point.
Meanwhile, across the park, Ricky was in his kitchen, trying to repay a debt. Marcus had saved him from puppy jail. Had forged federal documents. Had paid $150 in fees. Had endured the single most embarrassing moment of Ricky's life (the naked lap incident was seared into his memory forever, playing on a loop every time he closed his eyes).
The least Ricky could do was make the man a casserole. He stood over his stove, stirring a concoction in a large glass dish—ground meat, crushed tortilla chips, cheese, some kind of red sauce, and what he believed were the right seasonings. It looked… well, it looked like food. That was something.
An hour later, Ricky knocked on Marcus's door, holding the steaming casserole with oven mitts.
Marcus answered, looking genuinely touched. "Ricky, you didn't have to—"
"Yes. I did. You saved my life. Or at least saved me from a very uncomfortable conversation at the shelter when I turned back into a human in a kennel next to a flatulent Basset Hound." Ricky thrust the dish at him. "It's a Taco Casserole."
"It smells… interesting."
Marcus took the dish, peering at the contents. The meat looked a little chunky. The texture was gelatinous. "What kind of meat is this?"
"Oh, it's top-shelf stuff," Ricky said proudly, puffing out his chest.
"Yeah? Top shelf?" Marcus smiled, trying to be polite.
"Yeah, that's where the store keeps the Alpo."
Marcus's smile froze. His brain rebooted. "I'm sorry, did you say…"
"Alpo. You know, the canned dog food? The Prime Cuts," Ricky clarified, as if the brand was the issue. "I used to eat it just when I was Paco, but then I didn't have anything else in the house one time and I used it and it's really tasty—especially if you use lots and lots of cheese. The cheese binds with the gravy."
Ricky beamed, clearly pleased with his culinary creativity.
"Right. Dog food. In a casserole." Marcus's eyebrow raised. "That's… thoughtful."
"Well, enjoy!" Ricky bounded down the steps, waving. "Let me know how you like it!"
Marcus stood in his doorway, holding a casserole made with premium dog food, trying to figure out how his life as a hunter of the supernatural had led to this exact moment.
While Marcus contemplated the ethics of throwing away a gift, Vida and Mira had been recruited for what Mrs. Lawson was calling "an intervention of mercy." They stood in the Lawsons' backyard—Vida shielded by her massive hat and robe, Mira in her wheelchair—while Emily prepared to practice. Ricky was nearby in his own yard, innocently watering his dead petunias.
"The key," Vida said, pinching the bridge of her nose preemptively, "is control. You need to learn to modulate your voice so you're not accidentally summoning the dead every time you hit a high note."
"That only happened once!" Emily protested.
"Once was enough," Mira said, shivering. "I remember the incident three years ago. You were practicing for choir and temporarily reanimated Mrs. Henderson's great-aunt. She was quite put out about the whole thing. Kept asking where her cross-stitch was."
"Okay, let's try 'DO-RE-MI'," Vida said. "Nice and easy. Start with 'Do'."
Emily took a deep breath. She closed her eyes. She opened her mouth.
"DOOOOOOOOO—"
The sound that came out was somewhere between a foghorn, a dying whale, and the screech of a subway train braking on rusty tracks.
The windows in the Lawson house rattled violently. A car alarm went off three streets over. The water in Mira's tank started to ripple and bubble like a Jacuzzi.
"STOP! STOP! STOP!" Vida shouted, hands clamped over her ears.
But Emily was in the zone. She pressed harder, reaching for the next note.
"REEEEEEE—"
It was a sound that defied physics. It was a sound that triggered primal instincts.
Specifically, it triggered Ricky.
Ricky, who had just been enjoying the sunshine, suddenly dropped the garden hose. His eyes went wide. His heart hammered against his ribs. The sheer sonic pressure of the banshee wall hit his nervous system like a bolt of lightning.
"Too loud! Danger! Too loud!" his brain screamed.
And then—POOF.
In the middle of his yard, Ricky's clothes collapsed into a pile. His jeans, t-shirt, and shoes fell to the grass. From the pile of fabric, a small, brown blur shot out like a bullet.
Paco, tail tucked so far between his legs it was touching his chin, scrambled across the yard, ears flattened against his skull. He didn't even bark. He just let out a high-pitched yip of pure terror and dove under the crawlspace of his trailer, vanishing into the darkness.
"EMILY, STOP!" Vida roared, finally breaking through the noise.
Emily cut off the note, looking sheepish. "Was that too much?"
Vida pointed to the pile of empty clothes in the neighbor's yard. "You just turned Ricky into a Chihuahua. Yes, it was too much."
Emily looked horrified. "Oh my god. Is he okay?"
"He's under the porch," Mira reported, peering over the fence. "I can see his eyes glowing. He's shaking."
As they stared at the spot where Ricky used to be, a gravelly voice spoke from behind them.
"We could kill her."
They all spun around. Dale was standing there, leaning against the fence, white BEER can in hand. He took a slow sip.
"Dale!" Vida snapped. "We are not killing the child!"
"Just saying," Dale shrugged, gesturing with the can. "Vocal cords are fragile things. A little accident… problem solved. No more noise. Ricky stays human. Peace and quiet returns to the Row."
"They're just trying to help me practice for the talent show!" Emily wailed.
Dale looked at Emily, then at the shattered birdbath near her feet. "Talent show, huh? What's the talent? Breaking the sound barrier?"
"I'm going to ignore that," Vida said, rubbing her temples. "Okay, Emily. Again. But this time… imagine you are singing to a sleeping baby. A very fragile, easily-exploded sleeping baby."
They practiced for two more hours. It was grueling. By the end, Emily could almost make it through "Do-Re-Mi" without causing structural damage, though Ricky remained under his porch the entire time, refusing to come out for anything less than high-grade cheese.
Marcus found Dale behind his shack later that evening, sitting in his lawn chair surrounded by a geological formation of empty white cans.
"Dale, I need some advice."
Dale looked up from his current BEER. "About?"
"Ricky made me a casserole."
"Sounds nice. Neighborly."
"It was made with dog food. Alpo."
Dale took a long, slow drink, considering this information. The wind rustled. A squirrel chattered.
"We could kill him."
Marcus waited, watching the old man. He'd learned that Dale's flow chart for problem solving always started with murder, moved to arson, and then—if you were patient—eventually evolved into something practical.
"We're not going to kill him," Marcus said, right on cue.
Dale shrugged, disappointed. "Then do what the rest of the park does. Thank him. Take it inside. Toss it in the garbage. Bury it deep so the raccoons don't get sick. Then tell him it was lovely when he comes back for his casserole dish."
"That seems… dishonest."
"You want to eat dog food casserole?"
"No."
"Want to kill him?"
"No."
"Then you've got your answer." Dale took another drink. If it weren't for the mountain of empties beside his shack, you'd think that BEER can was never empty. Marcus had never seen the old man actually open another BEER. The can was just… always there. Always full. A mystery for another day.
"Thanks, Dale."
"Don't mention it," Dale grunted, settling deeper into his chair. "Literally. Don't mention it to Ricky. He gets sensitive about his cooking."
The night of the talent show arrived. The entire park turned out to support Emily Lawson. Mr. and Mrs. Henderson had to drive separately because their family van could only hold so many full-grown Bigfoots before the suspension gave out. Chen carpooled with the Lawsons. Ricky drove himself—back in human form, though still a little jumpy around loud noises.
Mira posed a special challenge, given that her wheelchair-tank setup wasn't exactly car-friendly. Dale solved this by driving his ancient tow truck around back—a beast of a vehicle that probably predated World War II. He loaded Mira's entire wheelchair setup onto the flatbed and strapped it down with bungee cords.
"You comfortable back there?" Dale called from the driver's seat, leaning out the window.
"I've been more comfortable, but I'll live!" Mira shouted back, holding onto her tank as the water sloshed.
Dale rumbled out of the park with Marcus and Vida riding shotgun in the cab.
The school auditorium was already filling up when the Dead End Row contingent arrived. As Vida walked through the entrance, adjusting her massive sunglasses, someone stepped in front of her with a stack of programs.
"Duuuuude… hey, Miss Vampire Lady."
Vida looked up to see Brandon. He was wearing a volunteer usher vest that was somehow even more wrinkled than his usual tie-dyed shirt, offering her a program with a lazy, stoned smile.
"Stop calling me that!" Vida hissed, snatching the program from his hand.
"But that's what you are, right? The vampire lady from the—"
Dale stepped up behind Vida, leaning close to her ear. His breath smelled like generic BEER and cheap tobacco. "We could kill him," Dale whispered. "Right here. In the lobby. Make it look like he slipped on a program."
Vida closed her eyes and counted to five. "We're not killing the stoner usher at a middle school talent show, Dale."
"Your loss," Dale said, taking his program from Brandon—who was now staring at a ceiling tile like it held the secrets of the universe—and shuffling toward the auditorium doors.
Brandon blinked slowly, looking back at Vida. "You know, you should really get more sun. You look really pale, Vamp Lady."
"I'm leaving now." Vida walked past him before Dale could come back and make good on his murder threat.
Inside the auditorium, Marcus immediately tried to sit next to Vida, who had claimed an aisle seat in the middle section.
"Hey," he said, sliding into the row.
Vida frantically grabbed Ricky by the arm, who had been about to sit in the row behind her, and pulled him over the seat to plant him firmly between herself and Marcus.
"Ow, Vida, what—?"
"Ricky is sitting here," Vida announced, staring straight ahead and not looking at Marcus.
"Really?" Marcus leaned over Ricky to look at her. "You're still mad at me about asking you for a second date?"
"I'm not mad. I'm strategic."
Dale, sitting in the row behind them with his ever-present BEER concealed in a paper bag, leaned forward and whispered into Marcus's ear.
"We could kill him."
Marcus turned. "What?"
"Ricky, the dog boy. If you want to sit next to Vampire Lady, we could kill him. Make it look like he choked on a pretzel."
Vida spun around in her seat, glaring at Dale through her sunglasses. "We are not killing him, Dale!"
"Just offering solutions," Dale said, taking a drink.
"Your solution for everything is murder!" Vida hissed.
"Not everything," Dale muttered. "Sometimes it's arson."
Before Vida could respond, the lights dimmed.
The show began. And it was god-awful. There were faulty magic tricks, a baton twirler who nearly took out the principal, and a tap dancer who wet herself. Brandon shuffled across the stage with a mop and bucket during intermission, waving and smiling at the crowd. When he was done cleaning up, he took a bow and exited stage left.
Then it was Emily's turn.
She stepped onto the stage, beautiful in her red cape, and opened her mouth to sing a song from Snow White.
The sound that came out… was indescribable.
To the Dead End Row residents, she sounded wonderful. Powerful. Emotional. Captivating. A haunting melody that spoke to their supernatural souls.
The rest of the audience winced.
Parents covered their ears. The principal checked his phone. One parent's hearing aid started emitting high-pitched feedback. A child three rows back began to cry. The theater's ancient light fixtures swayed ominously with each high note, dust raining from the rafters.
But the park residents clapped and cheered like she was performing at Carnegie Hall.
"Beautiful!" Mrs. Henderson sobbed, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief the size of a pillowcase.
"Stunning!" Mira called from the back.
"That's my neighbor!" Ricky shouted proudly.
Marcus leaned over to Vida—and Ricky, still planted between them. "Is she… actually good? Or are we just being supportive? Because my fillings are vibrating."
"Shut up and clap," Vida said, though she was smiling behind her glasses.
When the song ended and Emily took her bows, the Dead End Row section gave her a standing ovation that lasted a full three minutes, drowning out the polite, confused, and pained applause of the humans.
The next afternoon, Ricky appeared at Marcus's door, practically bouncing on his toes. "Hey! I'm here to get my dish back. So, did you like it?"
"It was lovely."
"Really?" Ricky's face lit up.
"Really. Very unique. I've never had a more… memorable casserole."
"Want me to make you another one? I have a coupon for Purina."
"NO!" Marcus shouted, then caught himself. "I mean… no thank you. That was such a special dish, I want to savor the memory for a while."
"Aww, you're just saying that."
"I'm really not," Marcus said. And that, at least, was the absolute truth.
Ricky took his dish and happily skipped back to his trailer. Marcus closed his door and leaned against it, exhaling a long breath.
Just another week at Dead End Row.