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The day Joe Pipkin was born all the Orange Crush and Nehi soda bottles in the world fizzed over; and joyful bees swarmed countrysides to sting maiden ladies.
The town was left behind to suffer itself with sweetness.
And the Tree had now become one vast substantial Smile.
“England is no place to be a sinner.”
“Dry-clean my soul and hang it out to dry if you’re not right, boy,” agreed Moundshroud.
And with each slam, one more pumpkin and then another and another and another on the huge Halloween Tree snuffed out. By the dozens, by the hundreds, by the thousands, doors banged, pumpkins went blind, snuffed candles smoked delicious smokes. The Witch hesitated, went in, shut the door. A Witch-faced pumpkin on the Tree went dark. The Mummy stepped into his house and shut his door. A pumpkin with the face of a mummy extinguished its light.
And finally, the last boy in all the town remaining alone on his veranda, Tom Skelton in his skull and bones hating to go in, wanting to wring the last dear drop from his favorite holiday in all the year, sent his thoughts on the night air toward the strange house beyond the ravine:
