MicroHorror

Ever since my wife, Jenny, died in a freak trick-or-treating accident three Halloweens ago, the ghoulish holiday has been a day that I dread all year long. Not a day goes by when I don’t think about her lifeless body lying in a patch of grass with candy pieces strewn around her next to a street. She was still wearing her Wonder Woman costume.

My son, Jeremy, who was five at the time, is standing next to her in the Superman costume he wore that year, looking like Simba hovering over Mufasa after the elder lion was trampled by a herd of wildebeests. The car that struck her careens away as I watch helplessly. My wife’s killer was never found.

The thought haunts me every day to the point where my life is like 365 days of Halloween every year, and the only thing that has helped me carry on is that I have to take care of my son, who is now seven. If I wasn’t around, I don’t know what would happen to him.

I have, however, been unable to take him trick-or-treating since the accident. Fortunately, Theresa, the kindly older woman who lived next door and whose husband died of cancer not long before I lost my Jenny, took Jeremy trick-or-treating every year. The only difference between Theresa and I was that Theresa was 65 when she became a widow, and I was 28 when I became a widower.

Theresa had kindly taken Jeremy trick-or-treating the last two years so I could stay home and sulk, but her family moved her into a nursing home this past summer, and the house had remained vacant. Vacant, that is, until yesterday, October 30th, when somebody new moved in.

Fortunately, in Theresa’s absence, one of my coworkers, Todd, had volunteered to take Jeremy out this year. Todd came to pick him up around seven, and it wasn’t long before prepubescent trick-or-treaters followed by watchful parents lined our suburban street.

It wasn’t long before Emily knocked on my door.

Emily was a tall and slender blonde that looked like she was about my age. She was beautiful, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. In fact, I didn’t until I noticed that Emily’s daughter, Sarah, was staring up at me from below with outstretched arms holding a plastic jack-o’-lantern.

“Huh, hello.”

“Hi,” Emily replied, not seeming to notice the state of awe I was in. “I’m Emily, and this is my daughter, Sarah. We just moved in next door.”

So these were the mysterious new neighbors? I was intrigued. “I’m, I’m Will,” I said, still in awe. I gave Sarah some candy and watched as my new neighbors walked to the next house.

Later that night I lay in bed thinking about Emily I decided to visit her tomorrow to welcome her and Sarah to the neighborhood again.

I woke up bright, and I walked out the front door of my house to head over to Emily’s house, but her car was not in the driveway.

Just then, a car pulled up in front of the house. A realtor got out and led an obviously newly married couple up the front walk.

“Wait a second,” I said. “This house has already been bought. I met the owner last night.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but you must be mistaken. No one has bought this house yet,” the realtor said.

“No, I met the owner last night. Her name is Emily, and her daughter’s name is Sarah.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. No one purchased this house. I do know that the original owner’s name was Emily, though. And come to think of it, she did have a daughter named Sarah, but both died thirty years ago in a freak trick-or-treating accident.

Goosebumps ran up and down my arms. I never saw the mother and daughter who came to my house that Halloween again.