The Last Halloween

The Last Halloween

         "I'll go to every house except Crazy Ethel's," Bobby Jennings said as he and his best friend, Tim Moore, started on their Trick or Treat trek.

         Tim pushed his Spider-Man mask up onto his head. "Why?" he asked his Incredible Hulk clad buddy.

         "Cats' heads," Bobby said.

         "What about 'em?" Tim asked, wishing he had worn a sweater under his costume as his mother suggested. He was already chilled.

         "That's what she gives you instead of candy. My big brother told me all about it. My Mom says it's one'a them urban legend things some kid started, but I ain't taking any chances."

         Tim shrugged, pulled his mask back over his face and he and Bobby fell in behind a group of vampires, ghouls, fairy princesses and other Halloween staples going door-to-door seeking treats.

         All too soon the group came to Crazy Ethel's house. Rather than cross her yard they detoured into the street and passed her house by. Bobby followed along until he noticed that Tim was hanging back, looking toward the house. "Come on, Tim," Bobby said.

         "Dare you," Tim said. "I'll do it first if you're buk, buk, buk, chicken."

         "I'm not chicken. I'm smart," Bobby said. "Besides, her porch light is off. That means she doesn't want to be bothered."

         The words were barely out of his mouth when the light came on. "You were saying?" Tim taunted. "I'll hold your hand if you want me to, Bambi -- uh, I mean, Bobby."

         Never able to pass up a dare from Tim, Bobby frogged Tim's shoulder with his knuckle. "Come on."

         The dry grass and leaves popped and crunched beneath their shoes like the hoards of seasonal crickets they sometimes stomped into goo on the street. The wind, a mild breeze seconds earlier, suddenly gusted, chilling the boys to the bone.

         Hearts pounding, blood throbbing in their ears the boys went up on the porch. Tim rapped on the solid wood door. Waited. Bobby tugged the back of Tim's costume. "Come on. There's nobody home."

         Tim leaned forward and pressed his ear against the door. "Guess you're right. I don't hear . . ."

         The door was jerked open so unexpectedly that Tim lost his balance and took a half step across the threshold, into the house. He collided with something soft and pliable.

         "Goodness!" the woman exclaimed, catching Tim's shoulders and holding him away from her pillowy bosom.

         Tim felt his face flush hot beneath his mask. "I-I'm sorry," he stammered, stepping back to stand beside Bobby.

         "Trick 'R Treat," Bobby said, examining the woman.

         Ethel Greenbaum was a gray-haired, bespeckled grandmotherly type of small stature but ample girth who, Bobby saw, possessed the normal number of eyes, ears and other sensory organs. The only thing scary about her was the brightly flowered housecoat and fluffy slippers she wore. She smiled. "Just a minute, boys," she said. "I'll have to go to the refrigerator." She turned and walked into the center of the house.

         Now it was Tim's turn to tug at Bobby's costume. "The refrigerator? Why would she keep candy in the refrigerator? Maybe it's cat . . ."

         He was interrupted by the woman's return. "Hold your bags open," she said.

         The boys complied, unable to see what the woman was holding because the long, loose sleeves of her robe hid her hands. She reached over each of their brown paper bags and simultaneously dropped what she held.

         THUK! Tim's bag was almost yanked from his grasp by the weight and Bobby heard the bottom of his bag rip. Heavy. Too heavy. Too solid. Not candy.

         Both boys yelped, stumbled from the porch and ran as fast as they could, leaving Miss Greenbaum standing alone. She closed the door and extinguished her porch light.

         A half block away, winded and shaken, the boys stopped beneath a street lamp. The bottom of Bobby's sack was giving way. "Tim, hold your bag under mine, quick!"

         Tim got his bag positioned just in time to catch the contents of Bobby's bag as the sack split. Miss Greenbaum's offering sat on top, nestled between the miniature Snickers, Tootsie Pops and other assorted cavity fodder. Both boys strained their eyes wide in expectation.

         Tim made a choking sound deep in his throat. It turned into a chuckle then a full blown guffaw. Bobby grinned sheepishly, reached into the bag and withdrew the horrible addition to their larder--a large plastic wrapped caramel covered apple on a wooden stick.

         Tim dug down in the bag and retrieved the other one. "Man, some super heroes we are! I almost crapped my drawers."

         "Me, too," Bobby admitted. "You ready to call it a night? It's getting cold and I think I just felt a drop of rain on my hand."

         Tim nodded. "Let's go to my house and divide our stuff. Just remember, I have dibs on all licorice."

         An hour later, warm and staring at the twin piles of candy before them on the kitchen table, the boys tried to decide what to eat first.

         Tim's mother stood watching them. She noticed the caramel covered apples. "I'd rather you not eat those apples, boys. The news always warns parents about anything homemade or not factory wrapped. There could be pieces of razor blades or something in them."

         It's okay, Mom," Tim said. "The lady who gave them to us was real nice. Like a grandmother," he added, not mentioning the fear that sent him and Bobby running like the devil was on their heels. "We should eat them first, so they don't go bad."

         "At least let me microwave them a few seconds," Mrs. Moore said, thumping one of the apples. "The caramel is hard as a rock."

         Receiving no argument, she placed the apples on a plate, placed them in the microwave and punched buttons. Seconds later, when the timer "dinged", she opened the microwave door, removed the plate, and screamed. And screamed.

         The caramel lay in melted wads around the cat heads. Ears, folded down to conceal their shape, lay atop the heads. Yellow eyes. Black noses. Mouths open in the last horrible moment of life, sharp little teeth barred, pink tongues hanging loosely. Wooden sticks projected from the ragged necks.

         Mrs. Moore half dropped, half threw the grisly find to the floor. Now the boys' voices joined hers in a single, strident scream of disgust.

         When the police went to question Miss Ethel Greenbaum about the inappropriate Halloween offerings, she invited them into her home. "Oh, the cat heads are nothing," she said, pointing toward her kitchen table. "Look at my Jack 'O Lantern."

         The head of an unfortunate trick or treater sat on the table, triangular holes cut into it where the eyes and nose should be and a ragged gash in place of the mouth. The top of the skull had been sawed away and a candle now burned brightly from the empty brain cavity, spitting as flesh and fatty tissue dripped onto it.

         It seems she tired of the rumors the children spread about her for years and decided to make an urban legend reality.

         Crazy Ethel was escorted away from the scene to a place she would never again leave.

         And Tim and Bobby never celebrated Halloween again.

The End