October 31, 1981

Glowing autumn leaves hissed and scratched the pavement as they were swept down the warm street.  Small patches of leaves checkered the sidewalks, splattering them with golden orange and blood red.  The last remnants of sun shone through the branches of the trees lining the narrow lane and cast long, skeletal shadows.  The street slanted carefully down from the west edge of town toward the town square which was situated in the exact middle of the settlement.  Each house on the block was quaint, showing signs of age, but looking comfortable nonetheless.

As the sun slowly set, the warmth was not the only thing hanging by a thread; a few of the trees clung desperately to the last of summer’s leaves.  The effect of the dying sun gleaming through these last vestiges of life on the branches mirrored the magnificent stained-glass windows of the small church situated in the center of town.  The church windows on the west side of the building were a splattered masterpiece of oranges, reds, and yellows.  On evenings such as this, when the sun blasted through the windows, it painted the inside of the church with radiant, fiery geometry.  

The town square was a cobblestone intersection that had been cut off from traffic and was specifically reserved for pedestrians.  The wide streets made for a perfect open market and benches had been put in place on each corner.  A circular bench surrounded the small war memorial that had been erected in the middle of the square.  Positioned on the northwest corner was the church with its large stone steps leading up to dark iron-framed oak doors.  An entryway to a small graveyard was set to the right of the stairway and was bordered by dark juniper bushes.  Through the pale light, headstones could be seen stretching along the side and then wrapping around the back of the church.  Just across the intersection was a brightly lit pub that doubled as a meetinghouse for the townsfolk.  On most nights the atmosphere of the pub was that of muffled conversation and good-natured laughter.  Tonight was a quiet night.   

Deep green grass reached through the scattered leaves which had fallen in thin patches, like bright puzzle pieces spilled from the box.  Waist-high picket fences surrounded each lawn and were adorned by a variety of rose bushes, blue boy holly, elderberry, and other shrubs.  Aside from the natural decor, most fences and doors were speckled with fake spider webs, dancing paper skeletons, smiling straw scarecrows, and plastic witches on brooms.  Nestled on most every porch were small groups of pumpkins carved into smiling jack-o-lantern faces.  A man at the end of the row was placing two flat, cylindrical candles inside the couple of jack-o-lanterns resting on his steps.  

Three small children, dressed as a skeleton, a witch, and a pirate, burst through the front door and began kicking up leaves in the front yard.  A woman appeared in the doorway, stepped over the threshold, and shut the door behind her.  She gently brushed her light brown hair behind her ears, folded her arms and smiled at the children.  She watched them play for a moment before beckoning to them and calling for them to come to her.  Once the children had settled down the mother busied herself handing each of them a bright orange cloth bag, exchanging pleasant words with her husband as she did so.  He carefully placed the top back onto each pumpkin, sheltering the candles from the slight breeze.  The children, bags in hand, bunched together at the front gate as their mother zipped up her jacket and traced their steps down the walkway.  The family exchanged pleasant waves as the father turned to enter the house and they opened the gate and made their way down the street.  The porch light flickered on and the dim eyes and mouth of the jack-o-lanterns danced in the fading sunlight.  Up and down the street, young children accompanied by parents and small groups of teenagers flooded the lane, each dressed for the night.  

A porch light burst to life and the door crept open as two young boys, both dressed as pumpkins, stepped out into the night.  Their mother squatted down behind them, spun the youngest around and began fiddling with his puffy orange scarf.  As she made what she felt were necessary adjustments she glanced at the older boy.  She felt a small pang of guilt as he looked longingly up the street.  A group of children who all appeared close to his age boisterously approached a nearby house and situated themselves on the porch.  The doorbell rang, followed by a merry chorus of “Trick or treat!” from the group.  The boy looked over his shoulder at his younger brother and then met eyes with his mother.  She smiled at him and patted the younger boy’s shoulders, signaling to him that she was done.  He jumped off the front step and skipped down the walkway toward the small white gate.  The mother put her arm around the older boy and pulled him into a half hug as they followed.

“Thanks for going with your brother.  I know that it’s probably no fun for you to go trick-or-treating with your younger brother,” the boy looked down the street again at the retreating figures of the small group of trick-or-treaters, “but, he is so excited to go with you,” she concluded in a low whisper.  She scrunched his shoulders in a loving hug.

“I know.” he said, half-heartedly.

Despite his desire to make the best of things, the boy’s tone was flat.  He could not help it.  The mother pulled him close again and kissed the top of his pumpkin head.

“Next year you can go with your friends, okay?”

“Okay.” the boy even managed a smile.  He got along just fine with his younger brother, but had approached the age where he would much prefer the company of friends.  The mother opened the gate and waved at the two pumpkins as they waddled down the street.  She folded her arms tight against a short gust of cool night air and glanced across the street before turning around.  She could see the family through their open front window.  A father was playing with his son.  The boy was far too young to participate in trick-or-treating.  She thought for a moment and realized that the boy had only turned one a few months ago.  She turned and walked back toward her house where her husband was standing, leaning casually against the door frame.  He looked at her knowingly and she knew that he was aware that she was worried.  This was, after all, the first year that neither of them had accompanied the boys as they made their rounds trick-or-treating.

“They’ll be fine,” he said softly, bringing her in close for a hug, “the street lights are on and they’ll be back in less than two hours.”

The couple turned on the threshold and closed the door behind them.

She couldn’t help but glance at the clock every five minutes or so, but she prided herself in the fact that she had only gone to the window twice - a fact that she was now joking with her husband about.  Night had fallen completely and the soft glow of the street lamps warmed the night.  The moon shone in the starless sky, casting stark white accents on everything it touched.  The boys had been gone for almost an hour and forty-five minutes and, admittedly, she was hoping that they would have been back by now.  She fought the urge to go the window again.  Aside from the maternal worry, it had actually been a very pleasant night alone with her husband.  With two young boys they rarely had any time to themselves, so these nights were cherished.  She fought the urge to go to the window again.

Another fifteen minutes passed and she felt herself growing legitimately anxious.  Her husband, again sensing her feelings, assured her that the boys were just fine and that they would be home at any minute.

“I just want to go look,” she said, jokingly; though the joke lost its luster as she made her way to the front window.  Her heart jumped as she saw two boys in pumpkin costumes opening the front gate and making tracks toward the house.  She flew from the couch and sprang to the door, swinging it open with a wide smile on her face.  The boys were at the threshold and both were beaming up at her.  She resisted the urge to hug them both and resorted to asking how things went.  Both boys began talking excitedly about the different costumes that they had seen and all the treats that they had obtained.  Stepping aside to usher them into the house, she glanced back across the street.  She saw through the open window that the father was still playing with his one-year-old son.  Orange light bathed the front yard and glowed through the small glass windows at the top of the door.  The man’s wife entered the room, smiled, swung her red hair over her shoulder and placed her hands playfully on her hips.  They smiled at each other and exchanged cheerful words before the wife scooped the child up in her arms and left the room.  A cloaked trick-or-treater opened the gate and made his way toward the house.  

She looked away from her happy neighbors, shut the door behind her own little pumpkins and turned, smiling, to listen to their enthusiastic account of the night’s events.  Over the commotion she never heard the sound of splintering wood as the door to the house across the street was blown off its hinges.  It was just another Halloween night in Godric’s Hollow.