Trick-or-Treat

A gust of October wind sent a shiver up my back. Goosebumps prickled through my ghost costume, the former bed sheet flapping like a flag in the wind. I followed what I could see of my best friend Mikey from hand-cut eyeholes. The top of his matte brown dollar store cowboy hat bobbed ahead. I lugged my loaded pillowcase behind me, my arms numb from our night’s success. At recess, Mikey and I planned Halloween to a science. We’d start at the top of the neighborhood snaking our way back, hitting the full-size candy homes, and avoiding the coughdrop and gum weirdos. Unable to see the sidewalk in front of me, no thanks to this poor costume, I followed Mikey’s shiny hat bouncing in the moonlight. 

“Three left!” He shouted back to me, a skip in his step despite the colossal sack of sugar on his back. He jogged ahead and halted in front of our next target. The suburban house sat back on a deep yard of foam tombstones and plastic skeletons. A fog machine pumped in overdrive filling the graveyard with a soupy haze, illuminated by radiant purple orbs strung from the gutters and the glowing red eyes of 10-foot chicken wire spiders on the roof. Mikey turned to me, the toothy grin on his freckled face said it all, we had a winner. By the time I made it through the first cemetery row, Mikey was prancing back down to the sidewalk with fistfuls of king-size chocolates. Shaking my cloaked head I drew closer to the door. An empty black bowl sat on the narrow porch beneath a happy Halloween placemat. He totally robbed me! He snagged every last bar. In a flurry of sheets, I lugged my pillowcase down to the sidewalk ready to fight Mikey for a Butterfinger. But I stood alone beneath the yellow glow of streetlights,

“Mikey, Mikey come on!” I shouted to unseen ears. Minutes passed before I determined he wasn’t waiting to scare me and had moved on to the next house alone. A blustery breeze kicked up, chilling an already cool night. My costume snapped my face as I picked up pace eager to slide into my pajamas. 

The house over was home to an elderly lady, noted on our map for dishing out the gross candies. If not for the lone jack-o’lantern illuminating the porch, I would have asked if she remembered what today was. Despite my certainty, that I would see a cowboy knocking on the door, Mikey was nowhere to be seen. I figured ignoring his antics would encourage him to reveal himself. Unwilling to let him keep more candy from me I approached the house. The single flame within the pumpkin flickered fighting to brighten a fraction of the home’s face. On each side of the door, head-to-toe windows stood with the shutters closed. I plopped my pillowcase beside me and thumped a cold costume-covered fist on the door. Instantly the handle rattled and popped as the door screeched open. When it parted from the frame a cornucopia of wondrous scents rushed past the figure in the way, filling my nostrils and tickling my tastebuds. As my eyes rolled back down from heaven I realized my ignorance of the old lady in the doorway. She was a bit taller than me, maintained a head of thick silvery hair, and her wrinkles were scarce on soft rosy cheeks.

“Trick or Treat!” I said. She smiled sweetly revealing a mouth full of perfect white teeth. I opened my pillowcase, gesturing for candy. 

“Ma’am? Candy?” I asked puzzledly. She looked down, seeing the bag for the first time.

“Ohhh right dear, I left it in the back, my apologies wait one moment” she croaked, and scuttled off into the depths of the home. Strange old bat, I thought. She left the door open and from the porch, I could catch glimpses of each room that branched off the hallway. On my immediate left was a dark living room, a couple of moth-eaten sofas and plastic-wrapped chairs filled the space. At the end of the hallway, I could see a bit of the kitchen, there was a shimmer on the floor that caught my eye. I pulled off my costume for a better look, and at the end of the hall lay a plastic cowboy hat. Mikey? It couldn’t be, I thought. Unable to control curiosity I took a step into the house, pausing to check for any sign of the old lady. I tiptoed a few paces deeper when the strength of the magnificent scents tripled, a blend of buttered chicken pot pie, and warm cinnamon apple. Shaking my dizzied head, I should’ve turned and left but the aroma strangled me in a bear hug, determined to reach the hat I shoved against it. Yet as the seconds ticked by I couldn’t resist the warm embrace.

Spellbound by fragrance I didn’t notice the door behind me groan and click shut. My thoughts clouded, I couldn’t remember why I was there and what I wanted other than the goodies in the air. I passed several rooms on both sides of the hallway, each handle wrapped in steel chains locked shut, and each one I cared less than the last. My shoulders started slouching and the drool falling from my lips was uncontrollable. I could taste the succulent blend of scents, I was horrified at the thought of never reaching the kitchen counter, never digging my fingertips into the crust of each pie, never shoveling mouthful after mouthful in my starving face. The view began to expand as I reached the end of the hallway, a vast kitchen in front of me. The grand dining table stretched for tens of feet. Heaps of golden mashed potatoes overflowing with bronze gravy, fat steaming slices of salty pink meats, blooming piles of puffy fudge muffins, the assortment was a never-ending platter. I kicked the cowboy hat aside, tripping over my feet to get a seat at the table, obsessed with the scene and consumed with a desire to eat. I loaded my plate with appetizers: creamy deviled eggs, golden brown garlic knots, and ravioli wet with butter. It was the pinnacle of food and the greatest I ever had until I got to the entree.

Sitting on the center of the table stuffed and basted was Mikey, skinned down to the muscle, golden and glazed, his legs and arms tied up behind his back. His lips shrivelled revealing sourly yellowed teeth biting a plump scarlet apple shoved in his mouth, I clenched my fork and knife white-knuckled in my fists. The remaining consciousness I clung to screamed in despair and disgust. A small wrinkled hand crept onto my shoulder before my grip could loosen. The old woman’s lips inches from my head, her silk hair brushing my ear.

“Don’t let your meal run cold dear” she cooed, snuffing any lingering doubt.

Focused on my greasy reflection on Mikey’s skinless thighs, I reached with my utensils and placed the blade on his tricep, puncturing his tender flesh like a pin cushion with my fork to steady. I cut back and forth in rhythm, slipping the knife deeper into my best friend’s arm. I stripped the piece of meat and placed it in my mouth. It was the best splash of flavor I ever tasted, tender and crunchy with a smoky aftertaste. I sawed and shoveled until the knife ground against bone and my belly swelled to disgusting girth. I looked up at the old woman, she nodded and smiled her sweet smile, bustling back into the kitchen and rummaging through the drawers she returned, a utensil in hand. My reflection showed in the potato peeler she handed to me, my cheeks fat and flushed, lips smeared with grease and crumbs.

I stood and waddled over to the oven, taking a seat on the tiled floor. Determined I could do much better, I began to work. I started with my left arm, up and down I peeled, my skin curling off and sticking in hairy strands to the floor. I flexed my forearm allowing me to trace my tendons, blood streamed from every bit of exposed muscle pooling beneath me. I finished with my feet, digging my skinless fingers beneath my toenail beds.

I pried each one off, pulling and plucking like feathers. I loaded my exposed and bloodied body into the oven tray, basting in butter and dumping table salt over my tissues. As the oven closed and my vision blurred there was a knock and the old woman paced to the front door.

A group of children shouted, “Trick or Treat!”.

Credit: Jack. L