The head-pounding knock at the door comes for the 28th time that same night. Having to abandon my cooking once again, I promptly hustle out to the doorway, orange bowl filled to the brim with a variety of homemade candies made by yours truly.
"Trick or Treat!" The toddler squeaks. As he looks up at me, the dinosaur hoodie droops over his beady eyes.
"What a nice costume," I sigh, grabbing a handful of candies and dumping them into the half-full pillow sack.
"Thank you," he says as he waddles down my porch steps and back to his dad.
I slowly shut the door closed and retreat to the kitchen. I quickly pull my golden-colored chicken out of the steaming oven and onto the counter, where I begin to bombard it with spices of all sorts.
I still do feel the slightest feeling of guilt; I mostly enjoy handing out my candies to the troublesome teenagers, as the older they are, the more I give them.
It's really just a fun-sized chocolate bar filled with a dash of vodka and some meth. I usually individually wrap them with pink or purple ribbons to make it look cheesy. Ever since I began giving out these candies, which has been for well over 3 years now, no one has accused me (yet) of their children waking up the next morning, vomiting and sweating until they either drop dead or take a visit to the hospital.
After all, I'm not the only one that does it in the neighborhood; there's Peter down the street that hands out similar homemade lollipops that appear to be store-bought.
I have to admit I've really outdone myself this time; the chicken looked great and ready to devour. Before I can bring it to the dining table, I hear the knocking at the door for the 29th time...
The knock sounds hard, shaking the floor. Shocked, I peak through a small crack I make in the door and see a small boy, 6–7 years old wearing a small little white mask, similar to the Jabbawockeez dance crew mask. He is wearing a black hoodie and black jeans. He stands there, staring at me from behind his mask. I grab the bowl of candy off of the drawers behind me and hold it in front of him.
"Take a candy; your costume scared me."
He peeks down at the candy and looks back up at me.
"I know your secret, Anne." A ghostly voice cold as ice mutters. His voice shoots chills throughout my body. How did he know my name? Where were his parents?
He remained silent after this statement, waiting for my reaction.
"W-what do you mean?" I stammer.
"Your candies are drugged. They made my friends sick." Following this statement, he slaps the bowl out of my shaking hands, scattering candy all over my porch. The bowl shatters upon impact.
"What's your problem, kid?! Pick that up this instant!" I shout, stomping out my door.
The child tilts his head, appearing to be confused at this statement.
"You heard me. Pick up my candy." I repeat.
He shakes his head, backing up a couple of steps.
"Well how would you like it if I slapped your candy bag out of your hands? Not very nice, huh? Now pick up my god damn candy!"
He shrieked a high pitch scream and ran down the steps of my porch and across the street.
"HEY, GET BACK HERE!" I shout, slamming the door behind me and slipping on my slippers. I sprint across the street and past innocent children in costumes and bewildered parents. I manage to see a small, dark figure pushing his way past others. He turns onto the next street, crowded with cars and screaming kids. At least this street is lit up; I could clearly see him far ahead on the uneven pavement, but he was far too fast; he turned the next street very quickly, causing me to lose him. Grumpy, I make my way back home to see kids huddled on my porch taking fist fulls of chocolates like a piñata just burst.
I make my way up my porch and realize my front door is locked. The kids, watching me curse at the starry sky, flee towards their angered parents and quickly make their way onward.
Luckily, I usually keep my back door unlocked, so I hop my fence and manage to make my way into my nice, cozy house. Locking the door behind me, I turn on my porch lights and return to my kitchen.
Great, just great. The chicken is now cold. Ruined. I don't think I could have a worse Halloween Night. I decide to clean up my porch. I make sure to unlock the door this time and head outside. I hand two handfuls of candy and bring them inside to put them in a fresh bowl. I bring the bowl outside and begin to clean up. Finally when every candy is returned to the bowl and every last shard of orange bowl is swept up, I feel a whole lot better, considering Halloween night is almost over, as it is 11 o' clock.
I decide to bring a chair out and sit on the porch for the rest of the night. Only a couple of guests attend, all teens. Once the last light on the street turns off, I return back inside, feeling a little bit better, but still very exasperated.
With the remainder of the night, I pop one of my old horror movie flicks, Hellraiser, into the VHS and begin to doze off on the lumpy couch next to my bowl of steamy, buttery popcorn.
But before I can completely fall asleep, a loud knocking comes at my door.
"What in the world..." I mutter, bolting up from the couch. I swing the door open and shout,
"Go home, its past midnight you..." I pause. Its the boy in the black hoodie. Before I have a chance to react, he disappears across the street once again.
"You best run away before I call the cops on you," I scream, "Get away from my house!"
With all my force, I slam the door shut and lock it.
Just in case, I grab a knife from the kitchen and return to the couch, ready to scare off any late night visitors. I return to the couch and lie down like nothing happened. The movie is near the ending, the same ending I've watched as a kid, as a teen.
The movie has long finished and I have turned off the television. I sleep on couch for no apparent reason, and began to doze off once again.
I believe I got 2 hours of sleep before I heard my back gate creaking open. Now fully awake and alert, I grab my sharp knife off the floor, standing in the middle of the living room. I quickly flick on my light switch and stare at my sliding doors, eyes round as quarters. For around 15 minutes, all I can see is the sprinklers lying dormant in the middle of my lawn and my garden, flowers swaying in the gentle wind. Just when I think it's my mind being paranoid, I hear the 29th knock at my door of the night, or morning. It's the same knock as the other two; shaking the floor, causing me to jump out of my skin. I dare not open the door, as the child might be there.
I creep towards a nearby window in my bedroom that reveals a part of my porch.
I slowly and quietly move the shades on the window...slowly...slowly...I don't want to draw any attention...
I open the shades enough to peak through without any suspicions. I see the same little black hoodie sitting on my porch steps, waiting for me to answer. He seems harmless; maybe he just needs help and is afraid. But then again, he knew my name and my secret...no, I should probably leave him there. He might leave...
I inspect his every movement, making sure nothing is harmful or will damage my property for the next 20 minutes. Just when I think he's going to get up on leave, he stands up and whispers something to himself, but I hear it loud and clear.
"I know you're watching me through the window. Come out here, now."
His voice is soft; ghostly. His words seem to pass right through me, shaking me right down to my core.
I jolt back from the shades, heart racing. This cannot be happening; I need to wake up. I scramble out of my room and into the living room; I needed to act fast before this boy causes me any harm. Without thinking, I scream,
"What do you want from me, anyways?"
There is no response; the only noise I can hear with my delicate ears is the wind picking up dead, crunchy leaves.
I decide to call up Peter for help; the only thing the police would do would be locking me up for my candy. I punch in the numbers, heart feeling like it will leap out of my chest any minute now.
To my dismay, Peter picks up.
"Anne? What are you still doing awake?"
"Pete, you gotta help...there's a little boy that won't leave me alone...he's some kind of spirit."
"Jeez, Anne. Did you eat one of your own candies on accident? Here, I'll come over there, but I assure you nothing is wrong."
Peter hangs up shortly as I sit on the couch, miserable. Peter calls me up 5 minutes later.
"Help...me..." Peter says in an agonizing voice. He strains the words out slowly.
"Pete? You OK? Pete!" I cry.
"The...boy..." Peter mutters, hanging up.
Tears streaming from my face, I sprint out the front door to see Peter standing on my lawn, cackling like an idiot.
"You asshole!" I sob, socking him in the chest, "Do you know how hard this night has been?"
"Sorry, sorry." He holds in a laugh, "It's just that..."
"Just shut up..." I shout, clenching my fists, "This boy has been tormenting me for hours now! For all I know, he could be inside my house right now, wrecking everything." I shove Peter and storm off into my house, furious at the boy. Furious at Peter. Furious at myself. I climb into my bed and scream. I begin to cry a river as Peter hustles down the sidewalk, laughing.
As I sob in the darkness of my eerie room, I hear the shattering of glass, probably my sliding doors. Springing into action, but still sobbing, I grab the knife that was sitting on my nightstand and roll under my bed, the best hiding spot I could think of at the time.
I hear small, soft footsteps on my wooden floor outside my room. I control my sobs as much as I can as the shadow of tiny feet walk pass my doorway. The little feet return and head towards my room. The door creaks open, and the black-hooded child wearing his white mask tip-toes inside, holding a glass shard from my sliding doors that he broke.
"I don't even have to look, Anne. You're underneath the bed holding a knife, wishing for Peter. Just come on out."
I begin to sob uncontrollably as the boy crouches down and gives me the good old stare. He offers me a tiny hand, so friendly, so innocent. With pleasure, I bring the knife down upon the boy's hand, creating a large, gaping gash in his hand. He lets out an inhuman roar as he retreats, leaving a slot of time to run out the room and run. He chases after me with ridiculous speed, diving on top of my back and slicing the back of my neck. I throw the boy off me, sending him down onto the wooden floor. I jog into the living room, grasping my wound with one hand and my knife in the other a prepare myself for the worst.
What I see limping around the corner is no longer a child; it is a pale, skinny, boney monster still wearing the same mask and same hoodie hissing and spewing out black liquids that appear to be blood. The height of it has increased, as well, to about the same height as my waist. It crawls across the floor as it gets a good grip on my ankle, taking two nips. I slice halfway through its neck, causing it to let go for a moment and drip black, slimy liquid all over the carpet.
The pale figure squeals as it makes its final lunge at me. I plunge the knife through its mask, causing it go to limp and hit the ground.
As the monster slams to the black carpet, I wake up in a padded cell, hair a mess, limbs aching.
As I later learned, there was no boy with a white mask, no monster, but there were the candies that I confessed to giving out, and there was a Peter, now dead.
I had half imagined the events of the night; when Peter really walked away, he heard me screaming, so he grew worried. The front door had been locked, so in a panic he had smashed through the sliding doors. So basically, the boy/the white figure monster had been Peter all along. Near the beginning of the night, the boy in the white mask was real; he really did know that I had drugged the candy because he lived next door without me knowing for the past few years and saw me preparing the candy one day.
My mind had cracked near morning. I had been taken in a few days later, lying next to Peter's corpse.
I sat silently in my padded cell, admiring my surroundings where I would remain for a long time.
I peer at my door, where a figure out of sight knocked at my door for the 30th time.