Halloween Treat

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No one came to his house anymore. They knew better.

The house looked bad in the daytime, with its shuttered windows, peeling paint, and waist-high weeds in the front yard, but at night, under a pale October moon, only the exceptionally brave or exceptionally stupid would venture beyond the shattered, rusty gate to the front door.

With every breeze, the shingles on the roof would flap like the wings of bats, the weeds would rattle like snakes, and the driveway would rustle impatiently with hundreds of dead leaves that whispered cruel things to unsuspecting children. And at the end of the driveway, the big, shadowy structure would sit silently, darkly, waiting to suck up any bright thing that wandered too close. There were never any lights on in the house because the old man didn't believe in electricity. He preferred to spend his evenings sitting alone in his ancient, drafty house, muttering angrily to himself.

In spite of the few visitors that came to his front step each year, the old man would prepare himself for Halloween. He'd move his flea ridden chair closer to the door so he could answer quickly and surprise the little brats, he'd put pebbles in his shoes so that he'd be even crankier than usual, and he'd keep a well stocked treasury of Halloween treats on hand. He'd lay them out on a rickety buffet table by the front door. There were hand-rolled balls of raw hamburger, prunes, bacon grease, and sandwich bags of tuna fish fresh from the can. Sometimes he'd have a large bowl of cottage cheese and a ladle, so he could spoon thick dollops of it into open treat bags. He would also distribute non-perishables occasionally, like slightly used band-aids, plastic forks, and pamphlets about Athlete's Foot. The old man loved Halloween, and if he'd known his house scared children away, he would have felt cheated. There was nothing the old man enjoyed more than making children miserable in person.

He could always expect at least one visit a year, from someone new in the neighborhood who didn't know any better. It was usually a small pack of siblings, because no one ever traveled up the shadowy driveway alone. They'd worriedly make their way through the crunching dead leaves and past the hissing weeds to the cracked stone steps of the front door, hoping the trip would be worth it. This year was no different.

This Halloween, a tiny Superman tried ringing the doorbell, accompanied by a witch and a cowboy. When that didn't work, he knocked softly, secretly hoping no one would be home. The old man answered, of course, he always answered. He swung the door open so quickly all three children jumped. His bald head glowed blue in the moonlight and the pupils of his eyes were big and black from too many hours spent in the dark. He looked like he had spent hours making himself up for Halloween, but he hadn't. His costume was all natural.

After a quick glance to the street, to make sure there weren't any attentive parents watching, he loomed over the children. "What the hell do you want?" he asked. The tiny pebbles in his shoes were grinding into the soles of his feet.

"Trick or treat," Superman offered softly, transfixed by how big and black the old man's eyes were. The witch and the cowboy instantly knew they'd been right, that this was a house to skip.

"I see," the old man glowered. "Threatening me, are you?"

Superman wasn't sure what to say. He offered his open bag as an explanation.

"Trick," the old man spat. "Go ahead. Try it."

Superman was confused. The witch and the cowboy were too scared to be listening.

"Well?" the old man asked. "That's what trick or treat means, you little imbeciles. Either I give you a treat, or you play a trick on me. Well, bring it on." His breath smelled like old cheese, causing three little noses to crinkle in discomfort. "Let's see what you got."

The old man's eyes darted from shivering child to shivering child. A spineless bunch, he decided. "What the hell are you supposed to be?" he asked the little boy in blue and red.

"Superman."

"Superman?" the old man repeated with disbelief. "You don't look super. Bet I could kick your little ass. Bet I could kick your ass if I had no legs." He spun to the girl in black. "And you?" he hissed.

"I'm a witch."

"Dressed up like your mom, then, eh?" The old man grinned toothlessly at his sparkling wit. He bent down and hovered nose to nose with the last of the trio. "What about you?" he demanded, each hard t in the sentence spraying the boy's face with spittle from a toothless mouth.

"I'm a cowboy."

"A cowboy." The old man seemed satisfied with this answer. He stood, nodding. "You certainly resemble one." he said. "You have the face of a cow and the body of a boy. An exceptional costume. I don't understand the hat and chaps, but you're obviously small and dim-witted. For you, I have a treat." The old man plopped something into the boy's open bag. "It's celery," he explained. "It's good for you. High in fiber. Now get the hell out of here." And he slammed the door shut, leaving the three costumed youngsters to make the long trek back to the street alone.

The old man went back to his chair, repeating his own words with delight, happy the holiday was a success. He folded his thin, mean body into his seat, and waited for another knock at the door.

Hours slipped by. Trick or treaters drifted home, lights flicked off, streets grew quiet, shadows grew darker, and the old man waited for another visitor.

It was well after midnight when there was a soft tap at the door, but the old man didn't know that. Time means little when you don't believe in electricity and have no clocks.

The old man was profoundly disappointed when he opened the door to find a small boy of twelve dressed in jeans and a Pokemon T-shirt holding an open bag and looking at him expectantly. The boy never jumped when the door swung open, appeared unaffected by the old man's bald head and black eyes, and he wasn't even dressed as anything that invited mockery. The old man's holiday was ruined. "What?" he asked.

"Trick or treat," the boy said.

"But you're not dressed as anything," the old man sneered.

"Yes I am," the boy said. He rustled his bag impatiently "Trick or treat," he said again.

"Nonsense," the old man said. "What sort of idiot do you think I am? I don't give treats to little bastards who don't have the time to dress up."

"But I am dressed up," the boy said.

"As what?" the old man asked.

"A demon," the boy explained. "Trick or treat," he said again, opening his bag wide.

"Balderdash," the old man sputtered, glaring at the boy.

"Trick or treat," the boy said again.

"Trick, then," the old man snapped, deciding he'd had enough of the disrespectful little upstart. "Bring it on."

The boy shrugged, sighed, and slipped into his Halloween costume.

His eyes flickered, and then began to glow a fluorescent shade of dull red. There was a loud tearing sound as sharp, bony spikes popped through his Pokemon T-shirt. He dropped his bag and his fingers stretched out, like leafless tree branches, capped with jet black, needle-sharp fingernails. His mouth opened to reveal rows of teeth like shards of shattered glass. He let out a low, ominous growl that made the old man's weak knees vibrate.

"Care for a hamburger ball?" the old man offered weakly.

The demon, however, preferred his Halloween meat fresh.

The moral of the story is clear. You better get your ass to the seven eleven before they're out of peanut butter cups and chocolate bars.

Bee
Interview
Lost
Some Assembly Required
Grill
Coffee
Opportunity
Arrangements
Candidacy
Victim
Halloween Treat
Results
Decorations
Party
V-Day
Religious Procrastination
Flat
Sunburn
School Bus

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tom@pinkproductions.com