Upstairs, the giant house was abuzz with the noise and the cries of energized young children. So much so you could barely hear the grandfather clock chime, downstairs by the fireplace. The kids’ bloodcurdling screams of joy and excitement, as they decorated their room, bounced off all the walls, seeping with red blood. Smiling to himself, remembering, Michael entered the closet, and next to the deep bench, lay the full gamut of costumes, hats and face paints in a dusty wooden crate. This crate was scarcely used… apart from Transvestite Thursday.

“Trick or Treat, lick my feet, give me something good to eat”, he whispered, rehearsing before the full-length rusty mirror. He had a figure like the Supreme Court… no appeal. He practiced his laugh and wink and glanced misty-eyed at the photograph on the wall with his brothers and sisters. They had always done this together. His sister, so fresh-faced, a honey-colored creature, eyes like hazelnut centers and hair like a sea of golden tresses. He missed her so. He went into the kitchen to fill his empty paper bags with sugary candy. He did not want the neighbors to think he was not doing as well as the other kids.

Upstairs, the kids shrill voices grew louder and louder. Anticipation was high in the young souls, as they ran around trying on capes, disguises and masks in a range of hideous colors. Mike tried on his jet-black cloak, fastened his stained collar and pulled down a plastic mask over his strange face. He felt confident he would earn market respect for his diverse practice of witchcraft, the supernatural and making objects disappear. He believed he was a spell-maker, not a spell-breaker.

He looked at the grandfather clock, left to him by his… grandfather. It was just after eight. It was time for a chocolate mint and he was almost ready. His clothing in place, pockets lined with sweets, everything was in place. He just had one more reminder - to log on to his database. He sought out the local addresses and phone numbers of wealthy attorneys, well-respected leaders of their field, whom he could tap for their wealth of expertise… and abundance of chewy toffees. At first, the database crashed, so he uploaded a new version but could not find any complete records. He had forgotten to send them to old Marley, the ghost of Chambers Past. What frustrated him more, many of his trick or treat rhymes has been orphaned and lost. His soul had been orphaned and lost. His parents had disowned him and cast him to the winds. He compiled his lengthy Trick or Treat call log, printed it out and stuffed it into his long, worn and holey pockets. Tears beginning to dribble down his flushed cheeks, he remembered the last time, their final Halloween, last October, when it was cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. He remembered his father’s words “Too many freaks, not enough circuses.”

He poured himself a scarlet red wine, which had been mulling on the kitchen stove. Wiping the steamy windows, he stepped outside his front door and began to walk and walk and walk, his cape flapping in the gentle, biting wind. He breathed in an air of superiority in the foggy timelessness of yesteryear, a simpler time. The mist cleared. He was alone. No children joined him. Not one. He looked back towards the house, upstairs at the attic window. The children’s voices returned and begged to be released into a child’s world. One child’s confused and sad face was pressed against the icy window, covered by a balaclava. “Paris and Prince Michael are not old enough to enjoy what I will be doing tonight,” he thought, disturbingly, to himself, and Wacko Jacko preferred it that way.