The Trick or Treater

I am an old man. 75 to be precise. Born February 9th, 1950, I stayed in the house where I was born for my whole life. We were never a wealthy family. My father slaved away in a rubber manufacturing factory until he keeled over from a heart attack sometime in 1962.

My mother, God rest her soul, took up two waitressing jobs at opposite ends of town to make up for the slack my father left behind. Every Thanksgiving, she’d have a hot plate on the table for each of us, consisting of peas, gravy, cornbread, and ham. We’d gobble it up like God himself sent it down, and we cherished every moment of that yearly dinner.

Christmas was more of the same. A hot meal pieced together by what change my mama could scrape together, topped off with cocoa and a nice little toy that would be the highlight of the whole evening.

However, Halloween was different in my home. Different from the other two in the sense that this holiday was more solemnly prepared for. As early as July, my mother would begin storing away extra cash for October, and once the Halloween sales began, she would go all out.

Bag after bag of candy, stringed bats, prop cobwebs, and every year, she would pull out the same old witch costume. She never seemed particularly thrilled about any of it, however. In fact, it seemed as though this was her least favorite time of year. Heck, I wasn’t even allowed to touch the candy.

Trick-or-treaters would flock to our porch, seeing the astoundingly decorated posts and steps, only to walk away disappointed when my mother handed them only one small sweet each. All but one, that is. See, every year, my mother would warn me about this trick-or-treater.

She would tell me how he’d look just like the rest; dressed up in costume, outstretched pillowcase in hand. However, unlike other trick-or-treaters, this one would be wearing no mask. His face would be the only thing not suited for the occasion. She described the boy’s face as smooth and free of blemishes, with blindingly blonde hair pushed carefully to the right. His eyes would be an icy, piercing blue that burned effortlessly through your very being, and no matter what, his expression would not change.

I caught my first glimpse of this person my mother described on Halloween night, 1957. I’d never been allowed to partake in my mother’s October rituals, merely an onlooker watching from just beyond the front door, and from that vantage point is where I saw him. Eyes glowing blue and hair shining blonde. Dressed as Frankenstein, his entire body, excluding his face, was painted a deep green.

It was so convincingly real-looking that I was almost certain that it was his true skin. The most convincing part of his costume, by far, however, were the metal bolts that stuck firmly out of each side of his neck. It looked as though precise, surgical slits had been used to implant the bolts, and each wound dripped with a black, tar-like substance that ran all the way down the length of the boy’s neck.

His expression was absolutely deadpan, and I couldn’t help but take notice that my mother had seemed to straighten out and tense up from the moment he arrived on our doorstep.

“Trick. Or. Treat,” I heard him drag out.

My mother responded with a frantic, “Oh, but of course, boy. Please, allow me,” as she poured an entire bag of tootsie rolls straight into the pillowcase.

As the last wrapped delicacy fell from its packaging, I watched, dumbstruck, as she then proceeded to pour an entire bag of dots into the pillowcase as well.

Then Bazooka Gum, then Mary Janes, she emptied every bag of candy she had been saving that year into the pillowcase, which, all the while, remained completely flaccid.

Once the candy had completely run out, the kid simply turned around and stepped off the porch.

My mother breathed a sigh of relief and shot me an exhausted-looking smile before taking me by the hand and leading me to my bedroom, where, just like every Halloween, she’d lie with me and we’d dream until November 1st.

For 10 years, this tradition continued, and with each year, I saw a new version of this child. I say child because child he remained. Never aging even a day, his skin remained smooth, and his hair stayed the same, radiating blonde. Changing only his costume, each Halloween, there he was again, face present and body hidden.

That is, until Halloween, 1967. Earlier that year, my mother had lost her waitressing job uptown, leaving her and me reliant entirely upon tips from a single restaurant. I picked up a paper route during around mid-August and hustled every day to chip in wherever I could.

Unfortunately, with income cut in half for a few weeks, as was the supply of decor, and, more importantly, candy. My mother tried the best she could to scrape together as much as possible, but I could tell by the worrisome look that grew ever more present in her face with each passing week, she knew it wouldn’t be enough.

When Halloween night finally arrived and the hour drew later and later, we heard the dreaded footsteps climb the steps of our front porch.

Step. Step. Step. Step.

Then the knocking. Three slow, rhythmic knocks.

“Trick. Or. Treat.”

My mother’s eyes filled with anxious fear as she rose to make her way to the door. Pulling it open, she was met with a zombie. Skin on his arms was peeling and sagged from the appendage. His shirt was torn, revealing maggot-infested wounds streaking the length of his chest. Internal organs dangled out of his stomach as he held the pillowcase out, yet again.

“Trick. Or. Treat.”

“Ah, oh, yes, forgive me, child,” my mother replied.

Cautiously, she began emptying the candy that we had garnered. Dots, Tootsie Rolls, Mars Bars, Hershey’s Kisses, then nothing.

“There you are, dear,” my mother said nervously.

The kid looked down into the black void of his pillowcase before snapping his icy blue eyes back up at my mother.

“Trick or Treat,” he grunted frantically.

“Yes, sweetie, Trick or Treat. Now, goodnight, I really must be off to bed.”

“Trick or Treat,” the boy continued. Growing more and more aggressive with each bellow, my mother attempted to shut the door, to which the boy slammed his entire body heavily against the wood.

“Trick or Treat! Trick or Treat!”

The wounds on the boy’s body that I was sure were not cosmetic at this point boiled and leaked out all over the entrance into our living room as he forcibly shoved his way inside. He simply would not stop chanting those deafening three words, even as he tackled my mother to the ground.

Rushing to her aid, I pulled with all of my might to restrain the child, but it was as though he had completely latched onto my mother as his fingernails drove deep into her ribcage. I screamed as the sound of flesh tearing filled the room, along with my mother’s desperate pleas of agony.

Straining with all my might, the boy refused to budge as he snapped rib after rib straight from my mother’s torso. He stuffed each bone deep into his never-ending pillowcase and all I could do was watch in horror as he pried a gaping hole into her chest with his clawlike fingernails.

Ripping and tearing, he clawed straight through to my mother’s organs and heart. Her lungs, her stomach, he stuffed everything into his damned pillowcase. Once she had been picked completely clean, he placed her head and shoulders along the seams of the pillowcase and tugged along the edges until her entire body disappeared into his black void.

The room fell silent, and the boy turned to me, completely expressionless, before lugging the pillowcase over his shoulder and walking out of the house. I stood there, completely petrified; too scared to even move until morning.

This was 57 years ago, and the reason I’m writing this now is because I am a sick and dying man. My house is currently on the market, and I need to leave this as a warning to whoever it may come into possession of. Please. Do not underestimate the importance of stocking up completely on candy. He very well may be visiting you this Halloween.