By G. E. Shuman
It is a distant memory, cold and old,
dusted off now as a long-neglected, rediscovered book might be. It
matters, somehow, that this nearly forgotten evening lived within a
mid-nineteen sixties October. Perhaps it could just be that the late
autumn wind cooled and creaked the leafless, lifeless-looking trees
even more back then than now, again, somehow. Or, perhaps it is only
because those old October thirty-firsts were actually spookier
then... at least to the one whose memory of that long ago night it
is. Those decrepit Halloweens of the past featured no costumes of
bleeding bodies or vividly-maimed, tortured souls. Those nights
were, simply, or perhaps, not so simply, ghostly, haunting, spooky
nights, indeed.
On this one particular Halloween
night, dusk, as dust, had settled slowly upon the small New England
town of the boy's youth. Supper had been a hurried affair, gobbled
by giggling goblins anxious to get out into the night... where they
belonged. Low voices and footsteps of other spooks were already upon
the steps of the boy's home; knocks and bone-chilling knob-rattling
had already begun at the front door.
The boy of ten or so was more than
ready to go out. By accident, or by plan, his siblings had already
slipped away... without him. He was very alone; at least he hoped
that he was alone, as he ventured into the dark, and into the much
too chilly evening air. The stone-cold wind stabbed at his eyes as
he peered through the rubbery-odored mask of his costume. The boy
began the long walk through the frozen, dead, musty-scented leaves
covering the sidewalk. Those deathly dry leaves crunched and cried
out his location with every foot fall. He was fair game for any
ghouls lurking behind the large maples which lined the street. As
the boy walked on in the increasingly inky-black, he dared not peek
even slightly around any of those rough old trees. It was a known
fact that not EVERY roadside tree hid some witch or ghastly ghost,
but the boy knew that he was certain to pick the one which did, if he
were to dare to look.
By sheer will, or by chance, the youth
succeeded in passing the haunted trees, and successfully
trick-or-treated at many old homes along his own home's dead-end
street. Every inch of the way he thought about the one house he
dreaded visiting most; the house of the witchy-looking, hunched old
lady. It was true that she seemed a kind soul in the daytime, but
you never saw her humped old back or the shadowy, wrinkly look in her
eyes in the daytime. She saved those things for just such a night as
this. Her house, at least the enclosed porch of it, was as cold as a
tomb every October night. The boy remembered this well from the year
before, but that year he had been with his brothers and sisters.
Even then the old witch seemed more interested in him than she should
have been. He was small, and likely the only one of the group who
would fit in her cauldron, he had always thought. As he walked
toward her house this evening, every scuffling, leaf-crunching,
spine-chilling step seemed to taunt him with the scratchy words:
Every... witch... awaits... the child... who comes... alone.
The boy's small hands were nearly
frozen by the time he reached the old lady's house, so very far down
the street when it is night. He managed to climb to the top of the
worn old steps. He stood there for a time, and then worked up enough
courage to pry open the narrow door which guarded the witch's small
and dark, windowed porch. The rusty door spring, worn to its own
insanity by countless other small boys, who, the boy thought, must
also have been fools enough to enter here, screeched a hateful,
grating announcement of his arrival. This it repeated, mockingly, as
the door slammed tightly shut; a stubborn-looking windowed wall
between the boy and the world outside.
The long, enclosed tomb of a porch
offered no relief from the cold, but some little bit from the cold
night wind. The only light therein was that emanating from a
maddening, perfectly-placed jack-o-lantern, which hideously smiled,
glaring up at the boy from the floor, at the farthest corner of the
room. The entire porch exuded the sooty-sweet smell of that
candle-lit carved pumpkin. This aroma devilishly mingled with that
of the crisp, cold Macintosh apples which filled a wooden crate at
one wall.
The one who disguised herself as a
regular, kind old lady during the daytime was very cunning, indeed.
Her trap for such little boys was a porch table full of the biggest
and best Halloween treats in town. Those very famous treats were the
only reason the boy was even on this terrifying old porch, on this
terrifying night. There was a tray which held beautiful candied
apples, and another laden with huge, wax paper-wrapped popcorn balls.
The container between them overflowed with candy corn, the boy's
favorite. Blood red punch filled a crystal bowl, with paper cups all
around it, to tempt just such a one as he, with likely poison.
Thoughts of tainted apples and boiling cauldrons momentarily filled the child. He then nervously picked his treat, and got it safely into the candy-stuffed pillow case he carried. Hearing the nighttime witch walking across her kitchen floor, right toward the porch, he headed out, past the screeching door, down the old steps, and toward home. The boy knew one thing for sure, as he tramped back up the street. If the witch had ever convinced any small boy to enter her house, that boy certainly had never come back out. But he, that night, had somehow survived one more dark visit there. And, he had gotten away with the biggest popcorn ball of all!
Yes, Halloween was different in the
nineteen sixties, before the age of pre-packaged sugar and plastic
holidays. There was something hauntingly powerful then, in the cheap
paper cutout decorations, the cardboard skeletons, and the black and
orange party streamers of those years. Fold-out tissue pumpkins and
eerie (and probably dangerous) cardboard candle holders lit our New
England yards. Homemade, and totally safe treats filled our old
cloth bags. (The very thought of doing actual harm to some young
trick-or-treater was inconceivable then.) Those bags were the
carefully guarded property of night-crawling, costumed, youthful
vagabonds, whose parents had no reason to fear that they would not
return home safely. Those Halloweens were ones of simple, frightful
fun, when cartoon ghosts and goblins, fake witches and funny
Frankenstein monsters were all that stalked the lives and
imaginations of innocent children. True evil had nothing to do with
it at all.
The ghosts of Halloweens long-past may
find their haunts only in aging, dusty memories, but the dark and
distant night you just read about really did happen. At least,
that's how this old trick-or-treater remembers it.
1 comment:
I love it! Your anecdote sounds like a wonderfully mysterious short story. You really transport the reader to that time and place. It reminds me of my own Halloween experiences. It makes me sad that children in this generation miss out, especially on those homemade treats.
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