By Jules Keenan
I walk up the walkway in anticipation. It is lined with pumpkins of different shapes and sizes, all their eyes flickering in my direction. The spider webs on the dead flowers that only weeks ago were in full bloom, glisten from the dew that has already fallen, outshining the sparkling red eyes of the spiders that watch everyone in sight.
I quicken my pace. I just want to get what I came for, and get out of here. My night has just begun, I have many more houses awaiting my arrival. I don’t need to be wasting my time here.
At the end of the cracked concrete, a yellowing skeleton sits, waiting for me. Its grisly robes hang loosely on its deformed body, its ragged breath mingling with the wind. I close my eyes when I walk by, jumping when I feel its cold hand brush against my side.
I hesitantly walk up the creaking steps, each stair whining when I put my weight on it. At the top of the staircase, signs are screaming at me to turn back, that the only thing awaiting me if I go any further, is danger and death.
Tentatively, I creep towards the door. A large brass knocker with the bloody face of a man urges me to signal the owner that I am here.
Reaching out a shaky hand, I grasp the brass ring. The metal is cold against my sweaty palm. Holding my breath, I knock. Then quickly take a step back.
I hear footsteps.
The door opens.
In the doorway is a wicked man, with a curled up nose and cold black eyes. The scars on his face suggest that he is not afraid to fight, but the greying hair on his head tells me that those days are over.
My lungs scream for air, and only then do I let my breath out. The man smirks at me.
“Yes?” he murmurs.
In a muffled voice I ask, “Trick or treat?”
A moments silence.
The man smiles.
He leaves the doorway, only to return with a bright orange bowl, filled with chocolates and treats. He takes a few different coloured wrappers, and tosses them into the small pillowcase I am holding. He then closes the door.
Relieved, I turn around, and as fast as I can, I run. Past the signs, past the skeleton, past the spiders with their shiny webs, and past the pumpkins with their glowing eyes. I run to the street and down the road, never to look back again … or at least until next Halloween.
Thirteen year old Jules Keenan has been writing since she was six. One of the youngest members of the Writers’ Federation of New Brunswick, Jules enters their writing contest every year and hopes one day she will win an award. The eighth grade student of Blackville Middle School lives in Barnettville, NB with her twin brother, Samuel; younger sister, Abby; proud parents, Jennifer and Jason; and fur baby, Max.