The usual merriment had been happening throughout the evening. My husband or I would answer the door with each knock or bell-ring, a bowl of candy ready for the waiting trick-or-treaters. They had all been so cute: the puppy dogs, super heroes, the princesses. A few ghouls here and there, but as soon as they spoke the words, “trick-or-treat” in their sweet voices, we couldn’t help but gawk at their innocence – no matter how much fake blood had been used.
The doorbell rang again; I ran quickly to beat my husband to the door as we had been playing all evening. But when I opened it, I wished he’d have beat me to it. There in the doorway stood Peter Pan, what must have been his sister dressed as Tinkerbell, the dog with an eyepatch, assuming the position of Captain Hook, and a toddler dressed as the crocodile.
I froze.
It was just a dream, I reminded myself, as I had to do so many times. Just a dream. While I couldn’t take my eyes off of the tiny croc, visions filled my mind from that night many years ago of that terrible dream. It was just a dream, wasn’t it?
I was in fourth grade. We were on a field trip in the jungle.
The jungle? Yes, this was surely a dream.
The class was walking across a rope bridge. I was in the back, so I could see the whole class. Without a warning, a crocodile jumped up and grabbed my classmate Brian in his huge jaws. Brian screamed.
Oh, the scream. It was piercing. His voice cracked, but worse than that his bones cracked – crunched under the weight of those giant teeth. I heard all of it. Watched it. I couldn’t do anything. His screaming subsided as he was pulled under the water. I don’t know if he was killed from drowning or being eaten alive.
Eaten. Like a snack. Like a piece of candy.
Oh dear. The candy. The kids!
I don’t know how long I had stood there staring, but I pulled myself out of it and placed a treat in each pumpkin bucket. I felt the strong hand of my husband on the small of my back as he placed a candy in the little croc’s bucket. He bid them farewell, and I stammered a “you’re welcome,” and they skipped off to the next house.
My husband closed the door, turned the blinds, and switched off the porch light. He smiled and said, “Let’s call it a night.”
Emily M.
“Ethel! Door!” Wilfred hollered across the kitchen into the front room. His near deaf wife was in the living room, right next to the front door. The elderly couple had finally returned to the States after living most of their life as missionaries, mostly in SE Asia. They were still not accustomed to doorbells, or doors for that matter, though they had to admit that they were thankful for them here in Wisconsin as the autumn winds were turning chilly.
Ethel heard something from the kitchen and went to the doorway where she could see her husband’s face. “What is it, dear?” she asked, slowly.
“The door!” he pointed.
“Oh, okay,” she turned and shuffled gingerly the few steps to the front door. Deliberately she turned on the light, pulled back the curtain, and screamed.
Wilfred came running, just in time to catch her as she fell.
“What on earth,” he muttered under his breath. As he carefully lowered his wife to the floor he heard childish giggles coming from outside the door. When he stood he saw a headless Girl Scout, or one very convincingly dressed as one.
“Oh, dear, sorry darling,” he mumbled over his unconscious wife, “I forgot to tell you about Halloween.”
Slowly he rose and made his way to the kitchen again, to get a glass of water. Then he splashed it gently on his wife and held her as she came to.
“Oh, Oh!” she moaned, “Did you see what happened to that poor Girl Scout?”
“It’s alright dear, it’s only kids dressed up for Halloween.”
She looked at him blankly.
“They’re only pretending,” he tried to find words to explain.
“But why?” her eyes wore her tender confusion.
“Because they want candy…” he tried.
“Oh, goodness,” Ethel sighed, “I thought they sold cookies.”
Cedar
Molly had lost track of how many pieces of Halloween candy her oldest two kids had eaten. Eight or ten each, maybe? They were asking for more, and it was past bed time, and the one-year-old was sobbing from tiredness, and the doorbell had just rung. She gave in.
“One more piece each, then BRUSH YOUR TEETH,” she ordered, walking toward the front door, away from little Cindy who sat on the floor where a bag of candy had just been. Cindy was enraged and heartbroken at the cruel disappearance of the bag of candy, and was hoping her screams would bring it back.
“One more SMALL PIECE,” Molly added to the other two as she reached the door, thinking of the full-size candy bars a couple neighbors had been giving out.
Molly complimented the costumes that stood on her doorstep while she absentmindedly doled out handfuls of candy. It was time to turn out the light and stop answering the door. Time to be generous with these last few trick-or-treaters.
“I love your hair,” Molly said to a girl with blue hair. “Oh my, it’s Darth Vader!” she said to the next kid. “And who are you?”
The last kid was taller than the rest and had two heads. It was a mostly white costume with screens stuck all over it. Both of the heads had wide open mouths, and between them was a globe, which they seemed to be eating.
“I’m technology taking over the world,” the kid announced.
Molly’s smile faded. Her shoulders tensed. She dropped her eyes, tried to go to her happy place. “That’s a very scary costume,” she said softly, feeling short of breath.
The kid took a step forward. Molly took a step backward. Her palms were sweaty.
The kid stepped over the threshold of the door. “Now I’m technology creeping into your house,” it said.
This was a strange thing for a trick-or-treater to do and say, thought Molly. She stood frozen, staring at the kid.
The kid walked into the house. Molly cowered against the wall, and he walked right past her.
“Now I’m technology going after your kids,” it said.
Molly’s mouth was dry. “Stop, stop,” she stammered.
The kid stopped, turned, and walked back outside. “Trick or treat,” he said.
Molly stood motionless, staring at him.
He held up a plastic pumpkin. “Can I have some candy?”
Molly shook herself a little and dropped a handful of candy into the plastic pumpkin.
She closed the door after the trick-or-treaters and switched off the porch light.
Emily H
In a magical land where all our fears are manifested as dressed-up trick-or-treaters…..
It was a typical Halloween evening. The boys were all dressed up in their hodge-podge costumes assembled at close to the last minute — an assortment of items from our costume bin, clothes from my closet, and some face and hair color for good measure. Someone with a fox phobia was likely to be terrified by my youngest. My five year old was dressed in camouflage (face paint and all) and was likely to frighten someone fearful of things that blend in to forestry. My second oldest was dressed as an emo (absolutely terrifying to someone afraid of their emotions). And my oldest was dressed as the Terminator. Horror inducing.
Lucky for me, I am not afraid of foxes, camouflaged people, emotions, or Terminators, so my children posed no threat to my sense of well-being. They waved goodbye and set out with my husband in search of sweet treasure, while I stayed behind to hand out sweet treasure to other children in search of the same thing.
A group of children approached, and I tensed for a moment. But nothing to fear, it was simply a group of strong, brave little girls dressed as superheroes — Wonder Woman, Bat Girl, etc. Rock on, girls.
A second group approached, and I tensed once more. This group included some teenagers (TOO OLD to be trick-or-treating, but whatevs) with creepy masks. Creepy, yes, but not terrifying, not to me. Here’s your candy, you greedy post-millenials. Now go do some good in the world, k?
A third group approached. Spiders. They were all dressed as spiders. I threw candy at them with a small shriek and prayed they’d depart quickly.
A fourth group. They were dressed as creepy clowns. Thanks a lot, Stephen King. I couldn’t even muster a smile. I chucked candy at them and then closed my eyes until they went away.
A fifth group arrived. But no, it wasn’t a group. It was a single person. Why was this person alone? Where were his or her friends? Or parents? Had he or she terrified them all away? Whatever this person’s reasons for being alone, it didn’t seem to bother him or her. The person approached, in the most terrifying costume I have ever seen. A MICROPHONE.
Yes. I said a microphone. Why are you questioning me? Is it because this costume is TOO scary to believe?
What’s that? Boring? Why on earth would you say that? What’s even wrong with you? This is literally the scariest costume a person could be wearing! Why? I’ll tell you why! Because I’m giving a talk next week in front of several hundred people, and every time I think of it I want to pee my pants or puke or go to sleep to escape the anxiety, and along comes this punk trick-or-treater, careless and fancy-free, dressed as the very thing that I have to face and conquer next week!
So I screamed “no!” and slammed the door in the microphone’s face. And then went to sleep, to escape the terror.
The end. (n.b. None of this happened. Except the super group of empowered little girls. And my own kids’ costumes.)
Elisa
The challenge: Write about a trick-or-treater dressed as something you’re really scared of.
20 minutes
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