Chasing the Boogeyman

by Richard Chizmar

Ever since I was a child, it was my favorite time of year—a season of absolute magic. The air smelled of ripe apples and dying leaves and wood smoke. The wind made you ache in some place deeper than your bones. The sky overhead was layered with rich shades of orange and yellow and purple and red and a host of swirling colors too beautiful to be named.

Naked tree branches reached out as you walked past, skeletal fingers hungering for your touch, and packs of fallen leaves crunched beneath your wandering feet, their boundless brethren skittering past you in the chill autumn breeze like miniature ghosts haunting the landscape. Dusks and twilights lingered. Midnights stayed forever. Fat jack-o’-lanterns flashed jagged grins from porch railings and windows, flickering orange eyes tracking your every move.

Night crept over the town like a silent thief, and it was finally here. Halloween.

I remember always being amazed upon my return to the house several hours later—my pillowcase stuffed with treats almost too heavy to carry—only to see that most of the grown-ups were still sitting around and talking.