Booker opened his front door to see a gaggle of monsters without. Five or six small creatures stared up at him, devils and vampires, ghosts and witches. Before he could utter a groan, they released their high-pitched chorus upon him:
‘Trick or treat!’
Without hiding his scowl, Booker stepped forward and reached for the plastic pumpkin one of the children held up. He snatched it from plump little fingers, drew his arm behind him and hurled the container down his driveway, sweets spilling out as it sailed through the night.
‘If you come back again,’ he snarled, ‘the next thing I throw will be one of you little beggars.’
He slammed the door on their blubbering and stalked his way back into his living room. Sitting back in his chair, he pressed play on the remote and pulled the tray back onto his lap. As the gameshow continued, he shovelled microwaved lasagne into his mouth. The cheese had cooled to a sticky goo and the meat, if the contents of the cheap packaged food could be so called, was watery and tasteless.
‘Bloody kids,’ he moaned as he traipsed into the kitchen and dumped the meal in the bin.
His mood was always sour at this time of year, which he dubbed the season of begging. For the next week, he would not be able to visit the local shop without being accosted by the youths as they mumbled, ‘Penny for the guy,’ while standing over a pathetic effigy that barely resembled a human. In a couple of months they would be caterwauling at his door, expecting a pound for a poor rendition of one chorus of We Wish You A Merry Christmas.
And this all started on October 31st. The kids thought Halloween gave them license to wander their neighbourhood, banging on doors and demanding sweets to prevent against some childish prank being played on the occupant. It was nothing short of extortion as far as he was concerned, and he knew he was within his rights to defend his property against such activity.
Three raps on his door inflamed his ire.
‘Go away,’ he called, then grabbed a bottle of Banks’s amber ale from the fridge and returned to Richard Osman. He took a draught of the insipid liquid, angered that while he could no longer afford good beer his neighbours thought nothing of sending their brats to his door to scrounge from him.
The knocks sounded again, louder this time.
‘You’ll regret it if I have to come out there,’ he shouted, and turned the volume up on the TV.
One of the contestants answered a question wrong. Booker was not surprised, being that the so-called celebrity was only famous for drinking wine. These days it seemed fame had less to do with talent and more to do with alcoholism.
The caller banged again on the door, louder still.
Swearing under his breath, Booker marched from the room and stomped to the front door. Ready to loose his vitriol upon the kiddies no matter what their age, he yanked the door open and was thrown by the sight of a solitary woman.
She was tall, wrapped in a red woollen overcoat. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight bun accentuating her sharp features.
‘Mr Booker?’ she asked, though it sounded more like a statement.
‘Yes.’ Having lived in the area for two decades, Booker recognised most of the neighbours by sight even if he did not care to know their names, but he could not place this woman.
‘I’m here to talk about your attitude.’
‘You must be one of the mothers,’ Booker said, realising the ragamuffins must have cried all the way home.
‘I am a mother, yes,’ the woman replied.
She strode passed Booker with an air of authority, and entered his home. Shocked at her audacity, Booker followed her open-mouthed. She took off her coat and draped it over the sofa. Booker recognised the uniform she wore as that of the local supermarket chain. Above her left breast, a name badge introduced her as Prunella.
‘Please turn that off,’ she said, pointing at the TV as she sat down.
‘Who do you think you are, coming in here and ordering me about, you-’
‘I’ll not stand for that kind of language,’ she snapped, cutting off his insult. ‘Now sit down and turn off the television so we can talk.’
Booker’s pulse pounded at his temple. He took a step closer to her, looming over her frail figure. Rage twisted his face into an ugly mask. He felt like striking her, lashing out and letting all his frustration rain down upon her.
Her cold gaze stopped him.
He did not hesitate because she was a woman. He would never describe himself as misogynistic, and he knew that women were equal to men in every way. Including being equal to deserving a beating under the right circumstances. Had she not entered his home uninvited, after all?
But her cool manner unnerved him. The fragile body she inhabited belied her commanding nature. This woman, who would not be able to stand up straight in a strong breeze, was calmly facing down the typhoon of his rage.
He fell into his chair.
‘The TV,’ Prunella said.
Booker grabbed the remote and silenced the set.
‘What do you want?’ he asked meekly.
‘I’ve come to talk to you about All Hallow’s Eve.’
‘What the f-’
‘Mr Booker,’ she interrupted. ‘I have already said that I do not care for such vulgarities. If you insist on fouling the air with your profanities, I’m afraid I will have to restrict you from speaking at all. And it is so hard to share a conversation when one party is unable to speak.’
A shiver ran through Booker. Had she just threatened to sew his mouth shut or to cut his tongue out? He doubted she was capable of either act, but was uncertain that he should test her on it.
‘What about Halloween?’ he asked.
‘Your refusal to participate in the ritual causes a good deal of interest in certain communities.’
‘Why?’ he scoffed. ‘Just because I can’t afford to pander to the begging children of the estate, you all think I’m the bad man?’
‘You’re not bad, Mr Booker,’ Prunella said with a wry smile. ‘No, your reluctance to join in is not uncommon. However, it is the fury of your defiance which is noteworthy. It’s a rare passion indeed, which could tempt the curious to investigate further.’
Booker thought back to the way he had snatched the pumpkin from the young child and tossed it down the drive. Had he been too harsh? No, he didn’t believe he had been. He had already told two earlier sets of young scoundrels not to call at his door so it’s not as though his outburst had come without warning.
‘Let me ask you,’ Prunella said, ‘do you know the meaning of the trick or treat covenant?’
‘You mean tykes coming to ask for chocolates in exchange for not egging the house? It’s a junior protection racket, that’s what it is.’
‘These days the tradition is nought but harmless fun,’ the woman said. ‘What I meant was, do you understand the history of the encounter?’
‘Bloody Americans,’ Booker answered, as if that summed it up.
‘It is true that this modern incarnation was popularised by your American cousins, Mr Booker, but the origins go back much further. Beyond even the formation of the United States.’
‘What are you saying? That the Brits invented begging?’
Prunella shifted in her seat, crossing one leg over the other. Booker was ashamed to find himself jump at the movement.
‘I believe you are confusing the trick-or-treat game with genuine poverty,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it would help if you knew the meaning of the Hallow’s Eve.’
‘You mean Sam Hane? Some pagan worship of the devil?’
Prunella’s eyes creased with amusement.
‘The festival of Samhain,’ she said, correctly pronouncing the word as sown, ‘had nothing to do with the spiritual world. In fact, it was celebrated on November the first, a day which was later incorporated by the Roman Catholics as All Saint’s Day.’
‘And the night before is the one night ghosts and ghoulies can walk freely on Earth,’ Booker added. ‘I’ve heard that fairy tale before.’
The corners of Prunella’s mouth raised. To Booker, the expression seemed less a smile and more a leer.
‘Can you imagine if that were true? Demons stalking the land with free reign over the innocent? What a night that would be for the soulless horde.’
The woman’s mouth opened further, revealing her sharp teeth.
‘Too pathetic to confront the night creatures,’ she continued, ‘they would have to find other ways to keep themselves safe. What dire necessity do you think your ancestors may have concocted?’
Booker was unable to answer, mesmerised by the changing shape of Prunella’s face. Her top lip rode upwards, forcing the delicate nose into the gap between her eyes.
‘Some crafted plots to confuse the blighted brethren, to trick them into turning from the door.’
The tongue that flicked within that hellish mouth was thin, green and forked.
‘Others chose to sacrifice themselves, or others, hoping the treat of an offering would appease the marauders of the night.’
Prunella’s jaw fell to her breast and from the ever-widening maw a new face arose.
‘For you see, the ritual of trick-or-treat is a human design, its intention to keep my children at bay. Those that do not partake are open prey for my kin.’
Grey arms pushed out from Prunella’s mouth, followed by bony shoulders and leathery wings.
‘Look upon me as I am, Mr Booker, for I am the mother of nightmare.’
As the flesh that had once been the shop assistant dropped to the ground, Lilith rose in all her naked monstrosity.
‘Your hatred of the evening is special, Mr Booker. It drifts out on the night wind, tempting those who catch the scent. Ironic, don’t you think, that your intense feeling against this ancient protection of your soul is the cause of your damnation?’
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