In Laymon's Terms

Suddenly, the wooden door flew open.

We all shouted: “TRICK OR TREAT!”

An old woman in a bathrobe blinked out at us.

“Don’t any of you kids know what time it is?” she asked. “It’s almost eleven o’clock. Are you out of your minds, ringing people’s doorbells at this hour?”

We all stood there, silent.

I felt a little sick inside.

The old woman had watery eyes and scraggly white hair. She must’ve been eighty. At least.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“Well, y’oughta be, damn kids.”

“Trick or treat?” asked Peggy Pan in a small, hopeful voice.

‘‘NO! NO FUCKING TRICK OR TREATS FOR ANY OF YOU, YOU BUNCH A FUCKIN’ ASSHOLES! NOW GET THE FUCK OFF MY PORCH!”

That’s when Killer Joe reached inside his rain coat with one hand and jerked open the screen door with his other.

If the door had been locked, the lock didn’t hold.

The woman in the house yelled, “HEY, YOU CAN’T...!”

Killer Joe lurched over the threshold and the woman staggered backward but not fast enough and I glimpsed the hatchet for just a moment clutched in Joe’s black leather glove, and then he swung it forward and down, chopping it deep into the old woman’s forehead.

That’s all I saw.

I think I saw more than most. Then all of us were running.

We were about a block away and still running, some of the girls screaming, when I did a quick head count.

Seven.

Including Donna.

Not including Killer Joe.

Joe had still been in the house when we ran off.

We never saw him again. He was never identified, never apprehended.

That was a long time ago.

I never again went trick or treating after that. Neither did Donna or Jimmy or Peggy. I don’t know about Nick and Alice and Olive, and don’t care.

Now I have a kid of my own. I hate for her to miss out on the strange and wonderful and frightening joys of dressing up and going house to house on Halloween night.

Trick or treating...

Sometimes, what happens on Halloween is as good as it gets. Sometimes not.

Judy agrees.

“What the hell,” she said, “let’s go with her, show her how it’s done.” Judy’s not Donna, but...she’s terrific in her own ways and I have my memories.

Originally Published in Cemetery Dance #34, 2001

re you a good driver?” Malcolm asked.

The girl in the passenger seat gave me a crisp nod. “The best,” she answered.

“The best isn’t required,” he told her. “Adequacy will suffice. All I ask is that you continue to steer a northerly route on this highway and stay in our lane. As you may have noticed, there’s a rather nasty cliff on the left.”

“Nice view,” she said, smiling. She had a fine smile that showed two rows of glossy white teeth. Malcolm, an orthodontist, admired straight teeth. He admired the rest of her, too. Aside from her teeth, he could find a dozen good reasons for offering her the ride.

He continued to drive until he came to a wide dirt shoulder. He swung his old MG onto it. “You go around,” he said. “I’ll climb across.”

She regarded him with wide, questioning eyes. “You won’t go off and leave me, will you?”

“Of course not, Sally. Why should I want to do that?”

“Tired of me.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I’ve been put out before, you know. I don’t like it. Not one bit. I got put out just last week, right in the desert. Smack in the middle of nowhere! I could’ve died, you know.”

“Why did he put you out?” Malcolm asked.

“Another hitchhiker, that’s why. We were in a sports car like yours here. He says, ‘So long, Sally. I’ve only got room for one rider, and you’re not it.’”

“He should’ve kept you and left the other one. That would’ve been the honorable way.”

“Honor? What’s he know about honor? He figured he’d have himself a better time with the other gal, that’s all he cared about. So no thank you, Malcolm, I’d rather stay put.”

“You told me you would drive. That was part of the arrangement. I’m tired, now, and I’d like you to do as you promised. It’s only fair.”

“Happy to drive. But you get out and go around, not me. I’ll be the one to climb across.”

“What’s to stop you from taking my car?” Malcolm asked.

“For a rich guy, you’re not too smart. Try taking the keys.”

“Ah.” Malcolm saw no problem with that, so he slipped the key out of the ignition and walked around the rear of the car. By the time he reached the passenger door, Sally was already settled behind the steering wheel. He climbed in and handed the key-ring to her.

The car thundered to life. Sally checked over her shoulder, then shot onto the road.

Malcolm secured his shoulder harness. “There’s no rush,” he told her.

“I never drove a beaut like this.”

“Please, just a trifle more slowly.”

“Sure.”

She slowed down, but not enough to please Malcolm. He gripped the door handle tightly as the car swung around curves, sweeping across the double yellow lines.

“If you slow down,” he said, “you’ll find it easier to remain on our side of the road.”

“It’s all right,” she assured him.

“It isn’t, really. If we should meet another car on one of these curves and...”