Every year it was the same argument. Byron would approach his mother at what he thought would be the right moment and casually mention all the decorations being put up in front of the houses on the block. Ghosts hanging from trees, fake gravestones looking like they’d sprouted like bizarre mushrooms on lawns, carved pumpkins of all sizes placed carefully on front porches and steps, even a blow-up hearse on one lawn. He knew that on Halloween night, the neighborhood families would place luminarias – brown paper bags, on which had been drawn either skeletons or pumpkins, enclosing lit candles – in precise lines along the sidewalks. What a lovely holiday…

Every year, Byron’s mother would immediately know what he was getting at and lecture him on how it was the devil’s holiday, about how inappropriate it was for Byron to even consider partaking of the so-called festivities. Then she would start in about how it was really an excuse for kids to be greedy and nothing more.

So of course, Byron had to try and convince her otherwise, pointing out that it looked to him like a great way for the parents to spend quality time with their children, and for heaven’s sake, didn’t she want to spend quality time with him, her own, beloved son?

This lecture/discussion would then be well on its way to becoming a full-blown argument in which Byron’s mother would rant about the ridiculous and often evil-looking costumes the kids were allowed to wear. And the teens! My God! How could mothers allow their daughters to go outside dressed in those horribly skimpy little maid costumes, or super-tight vampire outfits?

Every year, the argument would end with Byron giving up and going to his room to sulk. "Fine!" he’d shout as he ran up the stairs. He’d just do what he always did – sit at the window and watch! "Thanks for letting me have a life!" She would sigh, tell him to stop being rude to her, and go do something else.

Well, this year he wasn’t having any of it. For one thing, enough time had passed that he should be beyond needing her permission. So what if he was probably too old now? He’d wear a costume, go have fun – who would know the truth? Besides, she had no problem with his other activities throughout the year, and couldn’t understand why this particular holiday bothered her so much.

Byron’s father had abandoned them one Halloween, and okay, he knew that was why. But for how long was she going to hold on to that? So this year he was going to do things his way, and if she didn’t like it, well, what could she do? Kill him? That made him laugh!

“What are you doing?” she asked one afternoon, about a week before October 31st.

He’d been in his room all afternoon, working on his costume. As soon as she’d come through the door, he had hidden the material under his books. “Studying,” he told her.

She frowned, giving him a suspicious look, but said nothing. She went to the window, shut the blinds, and went out again, telling him to please turn on the lights.

He obeyed, then waited a few minutes to make sure she wasn’t trying to trick him into revealing his true activities, coming back in without warning to catch him. When it seemed safe, he brought out the material. It was black and white – a clown costume that matched the one on his marionnette. One leg was black, the other one covered in large black and white checks. He’d sewn it together by hand, a task that had taken seemingly forever. The top was the same, but opposite. A black vest-front and sleeve over the checkered leg, a checkered front and sleeve over the black leg. Nice. Now all he needed to do was finish making the ruffled collar, find something to paint his face with, and he’d be all set. Ha!

The next day he discovered some old makeup in the back of one of his mother’s dresser drawers. It wasn’t exactly white, but was pale enough to be effective. He swiped one of her many tubes of red lipstick, a black eye-liner pencil, and rushed back to his room before she could discover what he was up to.

Finally, the Big Night arrived! He thought of it that way, too – with capital letters at the front of the words – because to him, it was going to be…epic! Complaining that he was in no mood to listen to the doorbell, especially when he couldn’t even participate, he went upstairs.

His mother, figuring he was simply pouting as usual, went about her own business, which mostly consisted of ignoring the doorbell. She certainly wasn’t about to encourage what she considered abominable behavior by handing out candy! Never had, either.

In his room Byron quickly put on his costume, then carefully painted his face. This was harder than he’d thought, but more because he couldn’t stop smiling than because it was a tricky job. He finally forced himself to keep his expression straight, finishing the whole thing by attaching the ruffly collar and securing the cap to his head. He pulled on a pair of white gloves (also his mother’s), black socks (these had been his father’s), and his good Sunday shoes. He was ready.

He grabbed his pillow, pulled the case off, and opened his window. A minute later, he was walking happily down the street, surrounded by the other children. So what if most of them were way younger? In his costume, he fit in and that was all that mattered. No one talked to him, but a few gave him strange looks. Well, of course they would – he’d never been allowed to do this before!

Finally, his pillow case bulging, he headed home. What a wonderful night it had been! A few of the other children were walking behind him, and when he got to his house, one of them said, “You aren’t going to ring that bell, are you?”

He turned around to see who had asked. It was a girl dressed as some kind of princess. He shrugged. Then he looked back at the house. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if he rang his own bell, and his mother answered without knowing it was him? He knew she never answered the bell on Halloween, but it would sure be fun to ring it anyway. He gave the girl a big smile and went up the walkway.

To his surprise, the other children followed – at a distance, true, but they followed. At the door, he steeled himself, put out a gloved hand, and pushed the bell.

At first, nothing happened and he was about to give up. But suddenly the door flew open, letting out a blast of eery green light and a strong, hot gust of air. Byron’s hat flew off, and a second later the children started to scream.

Standing in the doorway was a true horror – a woman with flaming red hair blowing wildly about a head that was hanging sideways by a thin strip of bloody skin. Blood was spurting out of the neck, and oozing gashes covered her chest and arms. Her mouth was hanging open as if in a silent scream, one eye dangling from its socket. She reached out and grabbed Byron by one arm, and it came off.

The children scrambled madly over each other trying to get as far away as possible, shrieking and crying the whole time.

The specter on the porch handed a devastated Byron back his arm and dragged him into the house, leaving the pillowcase of goodies sitting pathetically outside in front of the slamming door.

No sounds could be heard from inside, but then, no sound had been heard since that night, fifty years earlier, when John Macafee had murdered his wife and son with an axe, chopping into their bodies as they screeched and wailed their pain. He had then run off into the night, never to be seen again.

Now, Byron crossed his arms, both of them back in place, and glared at his mother. “Really? You really had to do that?”

She shrugged and smoothed the front of her dress, back to her usual attractive self. “I knew you had sneaked out, and felt I had to teach you a lesson.”

“And what lesson is that, Mother?”

“That it doesn’t pay to disobey me. Now go take that ridiculous costume off and burn it.”

He would never say it out loud, but there were times like this one when he believed he understood why his father had resorted to murder to get away from her. But why kill him, his beloved son? Well, maybe some day he’d be allowed to find the man and haunt him until he got an answer.

In the meantime, Halloween was over. For now.

Of course, there was always next year…

Impressum

Texte: Judith A. Colella
Lektorat: Judy Colella
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 11.10.2012

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