All Hallows ‘Eve. Once celebrated as Samhaim (Sau-ihn) in the 9th century, a pagan Celtic holiday of ritualistic ceremonies to connect with spirits of the dead.

The Celts donned disguises to avoid being terrorized by evil spirits walking the earth or to be left alone and not mistaken for spirits themselves.

The All-Saints Day feast we know of today, originated in May 609, when Pope Boniface IV dedicated the Pantheon in Rome to the blessed Virgin Mary.

Then, Pope Gregory IV added All-Saints Day on November 1st and named October 31st as All Hallows ‘Eve to the Christian calendar, meant to offset the pagan rituals with a two-day religious celebration.

Originally limited to Rome, later in 837 he ordered official observance in all Catholic churches.

In modern times, All Hallows ‘Eve’s name was changed to Halloween, the night children dress up to trick or treat for candy, unaware of trolling evil spirits.                         ________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Porch and streetlights lit the upper avenue like a carnival. Halloween characters and decorations flashed, buzzed, and/or twinkled.

Strobe lighting gave slow-motion affects across scenes in trees and on yards and rooftops. Deep devilish, guttural laughs reverberated in unison with high-pitched wicked witch cackles.

Pumpkins were carved into Jack-o-lanterns. Huge spider webs spun or stretched across branches. The giant multi-legged arachnids, partially hidden in the mesh, waited to bind their victims in silk bonds.

Children lined the sidewalks. Tiny Casper the friendly ghost latched onto the pantleg of a masked Michael Myers: a butcher knife gleamed in the Halloween character’s opposite hand.

“Twik-r-tweet,” Casper said, in his sweet, cuddly voice. Stone-faced Myers—stood stiff—and stared.

“Oh, honey, look at this darling little Casper.” The woman’s smile beamed as she stepped outside the door. “Harold, doesn’t this cutie look just like Andrew did at this age?”

“Yes, Clara . . . if you say so.” Harold just rolled his eyes and shook the ice in his rocks glass. “How long does this Trick or Treat nonsense last?”

“Oh, Harold—” Clara scowled, giving him a daggered stare. “Shame on you!” Harold waddled toward the kitchen, bottom-lip stuck out and chin on his chest.

Sleeping Beauty—was wide awake—a vampire’s object of vital-fluid affection. Count Dracula lurked, licking his lips, his malicious glint leaned over her shoulder.

Cartoon characters, superheroes, ghouls, goblins, and bloody monsters of all shapes and sizes emitted joyous giggles and squeals of delight as they scampered. And screams rang out in the darkness, where spirits and evil roam, the mischievous and perilous, cloaked, and hidden, planned their dirty deeds.

“Trick or Treat,” one child after another said. Residents dropped candy in tots-to-teens goody bags; hopefully, without poison, chopped glass, thumb tacks, razor blades, or Fentanyl.

Parents had to wonder the worth of sweet treats versus the risk of tummy aches and tainted candy. Though none wanted to be labeled Big Meany and keep children from joining the fun.

But these happy-go-lucky, merrily-we-skip-along nights could quickly turn into a deadly nightmare according to urban legend’s undocumented claims.

Our posse-of-four sliced razorblade slits with a utility knife across the back of the bigger kids’ bags, a few inches from the bottom. The candy above the line fell through, leaving a trail on the ground, which let us followers snap-up the droppings. We filled our bags to the brims, without ringing doorbells and begging. But looking back: a dirty thief is far worse than a beggar.    

It was late and the crowds had thinned to less than sparse. The group had tricked more than been treated, having never rung the first bell.

Earlier, we dropped a watermelon off an overpass, expecting it to splatter on a car’s windshield. But from such distance, it broke out the glass and landed in the driver’s lap. He swerved, lost control, and slammed head-on into a telephone pole.

The hood crumpled—engine jammed between the front seats—steam billowed in the air. Speeding vehicles crashed, rear-ending stopped traffic.

In an imagined, horrifying vison, the trapped man’s car exploded. And through the window, distorted in flames, his agonized face melted and incinerated. We could only hope it wouldn’t happen, and prayed his injuries were minor at most. Guilty as sin, but unable to stop and check . . . we raced to escape the scene.

The vibrant whites and yellows of twelve-dozen eggs oozed down windows and outside walls of houses in three subdivisions. Sixty jumbo rolls of toilet paper waved look-at-me in the wind like advertising banners, or tinsel on giant Christmas trees.

Then, we streaked brick houses with eighty bottles of model-car and airplane paint—in a rainbow of colors—never realizing the severity of the damage.

At that time, we had no idea how many kid-power hours, how much paint stripper, brushes, scrapers, white vinegar, and sore knuckles it would take to remove the acrylic-lacquer once we got caught. Answers we learned later.

With lighter fluid and matches, we lit dog-doo in paper bags on peoples’ porches, waiting for the unsuspecting to try and stomp it out. And on the only door we approached all night, we covered the smiling couple with a bag of flour.

The farther we walked down the street, the darker it became. Older, antiquated homes, stood in varying degrees of rot and decay, most condemned to be torn down.

Peeled paint, windows shattered or missing, casements splintered, saggy roofs, gutters barely hanging or gone from the delapidated structures. Teenage delinquents' thrown rocks had dimmed, burnt-out, or knocked-out streetlights. 

The last house on the left was barely visible from the road. In the dark, behind the fractured portrait-window, sat a burning candle flickering in a dish. Leaves whipped into the rustling wind and spun dancing across the street in an eddy. A loud whistling-sound’s pitch varied back and forth from high to low.

A jagged bolt of lightning streaked across the sky and lit the churn of ominous black clouds. The sound of a tortured cat: it spit, growled, and hissed in a hideous screeching yowl. A skeleton swung in the breeze by its neck in a noose, hung high in a giant oak. And a black-hooded creature with eyes of red stood peeking from between the hedges.

The half-buckled front door was slightly cracked open and squeaked loudly when pushed.

“Hello . . . anybody home? Is there anyone in here . . . hello?”

The room was black, all but within candle range. Rain dripped from the ceiling onto a damaged, raised-grain table, where sat an old woman with stringy grey hair and black, sunken racoon eyes—more rotten and empty sockets, than teeth—and with weathered and crevassed tree bark skin.

“Ma’am, are you okay?”

The spellbound woman’s eyes transfixed on the candle—flames danced in her eyes.

“Ma’am can we call someone or take you anywhere?”

All heads turned to and fro examining others for clues of introspection.

Then, someone said, “Her brainwaves show a slight glimmer, but it’s evident there’s nobody home.”

“Well, what should we do?”

“Beats me . . . either look around for who to call or leave. Surely there’s someone who checks on her.”

“We can’t just leave her. She should never be alone.”

The woman hadn’t responded to questions, her eyes still bewitched by the flames.

Candles burn in shades of yellow, red, and blues. The most powerful blue flames are said to mean an angel is present. A flame that sputters and cackles is a sign of communication. And flickers are a certain indicator of looming spirits. This night, there were no angels or blue hues, just a spiraling, hazy glow on the old woman’s haggard face.

In her witchy trance, the long-in-the-tooth bag-of-bones failed to notice as we eased off, pulled the string to light the cellar, and clomped down the stairs. Every pop and crack caused a wiggle and shake, which gave reason enough to stop. But we trudged on. The musty air full of mold and the stiff draft conveyed a bone-tingling chill. Saucer-sized eyes; every bizarre element ramped up the fear.

A pickaxe, shovels, and machetes were stacked in the dank basement's left corner. An ancient blood-stained guillotine. Three-sets of skeletal remains were chained to the walls as in a medieval torture chamber.

Then, a head rolled off the decapitation block and across my foot. Screams of panic rocked the room just as the door-outlet upstairs slammed shut and the lights went off. We trembled and shook in trepidation, squeezing each other tight, not wanting to be alone, and petrified tomorrow would never come.

The terrifying minutes finally passed. Lights flashed on, the exit-door opened, and upstairs the police encircled us as we emerged. Afraid and likely bound for jail, anything would be better than another besieged moment in that house.

In a heap of trouble, we were charged with vandalism and sentenced to months of hard work cleaning up our damages. Bills were issued for the repair of five cars, and $3,000 in emergency room stitches. But thankfully, no one was too seriously hurt.

As things turned out, the basement madness was prompted by a room full of stage props. The scraggly woman was once an entertainer before Alzheimer’s and dementia had stolen her career and memory. 

But as we had walked from the decrepit woman’s house, she stood unassisted, and with an aggravated energy, spoke these words in an unimaginably boisterous, unforgettable demon Pazuzu's voice from the Exorcist: Pazuzu thought to be the personification of the West wind in ancient Mesopotamian religion.

 

“Bones of anger, bones to dust

Full of fury, revenge is just

I scatter these bones, these bones of rage

Take thine enemies, bring them pain

I see thine enemies before me now

I bind them, crush them, bring them down

With these bones I now do crush

Make thine enemies turn to dust

Torment, fire, out of control

With this hex I curse your soul

So, mote it be!”

 

I end this with a WARNING: These last words aren't mine; they are a deadly hex!