User blog comment:CrashingCymbal/Halloween Writing Competition 2013/@comment-4833240-20131027175737

Sweets

I still can’t do it. The thought of celebrating Halloween brings me feelings of guilt, sadness, and anger. I’m now one of those people who leaves their porch lights off every year. But unlike many others, I have a reason.

I’ve been changed.

It started when I was five. Every year, I went trick-or-treating with a group of boys in my neighborhood. I remember us in those goofy costumes. We all tried to outdo each other, but one boy named Larry always seemed to have the best one.

Eventually, we all stopped trick-or-treating in favor of Halloween parties; some in the pursuit of girls, and others just wanting to leave the house. Larry, however, trick-or-treated every year right up to our senior year of high school. His costumes regressed far from his childhood standard: they hugged the curves of his acquired fat, bulging in certain places where the fabric wouldn’t hold him. With each year, he also started bathing less. I remember one year in particular where I was handing out candy. He came to the door in slow, deliberate steps. A smile of childlike, expired glee stretched across his lips as he approached me in a stained clown costume.

How he could’ve allowed himself to reach such a state baffled me.

“What happened?” I asked in disbelief. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine. As of late, I’ve been able to see the sweeter side of life.”

Larry rapaciously grabbed a few pieces of candy out of the orange bowl and left. He carefully inspected the candy, twirling it around in his fingers like it was gold. It bewildered me that other adults were oblivious to his erratic behavior. Not only did his condition sicken me, but it also lead me to a grim realization.

My childhood friend was gone.

After that night, I didn't see too much of Larry. Occasionally I or one of my friends would spot him wandering the school halls between classes, his face looking down while he muttered to himself. He didn't talk to anyone during that year, and more or less disappeared off of my radar.

Twenty years later, I saw him again.

By this time, I’d gotten a doctorate in Psychology and settled down in a small town in Vermont. My wife dressed up and took my children trick-or-treating while I stayed at home and handed out candy. Kids dressed up in a myriad of costumes arrived at my door to collect their sweets. It was 9 p.m. when it happened; the night died down, and children were making their final rounds. Through the darkness, I saw an overweight, middle-aged man approaching my door. He was wearing that same clown outfit with worn shoes. Even with colorful makeup smeared on his greasy face, I would’ve recognized his features anywhere.

“Larry… what happened to you? Why are you here?”

His eyes said it all. As he twiddled his thumbs and stared at me with blank eyes, I knew his expression was none other than that of a madman. Suddenly, he jerked the candy bowl out of my hands. Instead of asking for my bowl, I watched him walk away. He examined the candy the same way he did twenty years earlier, turning over each piece and smiling in awe of his find. That night, I decided to do something no other mentally stable man would try.

I followed him.

Donning a black hoodie and jeans, I furtively crept half a block behind his every step with a flashlight. I began to tire once he had reached the interstate, his sluggish steps leading an unknown destination. Slowly, he crept off of the side of the road until he walked into the woods. I tracked his path through the underbrush.

The path I followed was clear. Only when I approached the building did I begin to fathom the scale of horror that Larry had been living in.

Skimpy branches of wood served as weak supports to his haphazardly constructed shelter. His lopsided roof and walls were filled with what appeared to be… candy bars. They were glued together by some unknown substance, gooey at the touch and layered for minimal amounts of security. After closely inspecting the outside, I precariously opened his door and lowered my head to enter his hovel.

Dirty porcelain dolls sat in miniature chairs on the floor. A train set was scattered about, along with an assortment of toys for young children. My flashlight was the only way I could visibly navigate the makeshift house. I was about to leave when out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a hole with a ladder. After climbing down, I crawled through a dark tunnel. As I progressed, rotting bodies of young children appeared on either side of the path. The decomposing corpses created a vomit-inducing stench that made it hard for me to keep my composure. While every child was different in gender, race, and costume, they shared a common characteristic; all of them were disemboweled, with candy resting in the shells of their abdomens.

Further along down the trail, I noticed the bodies of the kids began to change. Certain parts of their faces were composed entirely of chocolate or hard candy. When I touched them, they didn't move; it was almost as if the candy had become bound with their bodies. Soon, I reached a clearing and saw Larry.

He was eating candy out of one of the child’s stomachs. Piles of wrappers surrounded him as ants crawled around him to revel in the filth. The moment he saw me, he turned up to me and said these words before continuing his sick feast:

“They… took… my… candy.”

I never ran so fast from a place in my life. Luckily, I’d made it home before my wife and kids knew I was gone. When she asked about next year, I told her we were going to hold off.

I’ll never celebrate a holiday that produces men like this.