Sweets: Difference between revisions

By this time, I'd gotten a doctorate in Psychology and settled down in a small town in Vermont. My wife dressed up and took my children trick-or-treating while I stayed at home and handed out candy. Kids dressed up in a myriad of costumes arrived at my door to collect their sweets. It was 9 p.m. when it happened; the night died down, and children were making their final rounds. Through the darkness, I saw an overweight, middle-aged man approaching my door. He was wearing that same clown outfit with worn shoes. Even with colorful makeup smeared on his greasy face, I would've recognized his features anywhere.

 

 

His eyes said it all. As he twiddled his thumbs and stared at me with blank eyes, I knew his expression was none other than that of a madman. Suddenly, he jerked the candy bowl out of my hands. Instead of asking for my bowl, I watched him walk away. He examined the candy the same way he did twenty years earlier, turning over each piece and smiling in awe of his find. That night, I decided to do something no other mentally stable man would try.

The path I followed was clear. Only when I approached the building did I begin to fathom the scale of horror that Larry had been living in.

 

 

Dirty porcelain dolls sat in miniature chairs on the floor. A train set was scattered about, along with an assortment of toys for young children. My flashlight was the only way I could visibly navigate the makeshift house. I was about to leave when out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a hole with a ladder. After climbing down, I crawled through a dark tunnel.

He was eating candy out of one of the child's stomachs. Piles of wrappers surrounded him as ants crawled on him to revel in the filth. The moment he saw me, he turned up to me and said these words before continuing his sick feast:

 

 

I never ran so fast from a place in my life. Luckily, I'd made it home before my wife and kids knew I was gone. When she asked about next year, I told her we were going to hold off.