Earlier that afternoon Mr.Dean had made a potion. A poisonous potion. The tiniest drop could kill a grown man. At his feet stood a basket filled with fresh, red apples. Slowly, he dipped each apple into the poisonous potion so that it became an even brighter, bloodier red. He then coated each apple in a thick, creamy layer of melted chocolate. As he watched the chocolate ooze off the sides of the apple and drip onto the floor, he chuckled to himself.
‘It drips like blood,’ he thought.
Once all the chocolate on the apples had set, he placed each one back into the basket and left them by the front door. All that was to be done now was to sit and wait for the trick or treaters to come by.
It was seven o’clock, but already the sky was dark. The air was musty and smelt like stale stew. Smoke puffed out of chimneys making the atmosphere dense and smoggy. It couldn’t be a better night for Halloween.
Inside, the children were getting ready. Little masked faces running up and down the stairs making sure their outfits were perfect. Finally their parents got them out of the house giving them some peace and quiet at last.
Once they were outside the children jumped about in the ever-growing piles of leaves. Although the night air was crisp and chilly their hearts were warm and they were excited.
They began their journeys, stopping off at each house in turn and slowly increasing the level of sweets in their containers. Finally, they came to the end of the street, at which Mr.Dean’s house stood. His house wasn’t quite visible from the street and you had to walk up the long drive to get to it. This increased the childrens’ curiosity. But, they had been specifically told by their parents that they were not to go up to his house. Other years the children had thought maybe there was a good reason for this, however this year their curiosity was too much for them.
One by one the children came together as a group at the foot of Mr.Dean’s drive. Then, they decided to make their way up to his house. With each cautious step their minds became more and more overwhelmed by the thoughts of what they could find.
They came to the front door. The children exchanged nervous glances and shuffled from foot to foot not knowing what to do next. Then one of the children said, ‘I’ll do it.’ He stepped forward, wiping his clammy hands on his costume before raising his right hand to the door. He knocked three times. There was a pause. Then they heard a key jamming into a keyhole and the ‘clack’ as it became unlocked. They held their breath.
The door opened. ‘CHARGE!’ screamed one of the children. They bombarded the doorway, screaming and chanting. ‘Trick or treat! Trick or treat!’ over and over. The door slammed behind them. The children spun around and in their shock they began to charge again. Their plastic knives held high in the air. Their faces filled with terror. They could not stop. They could not stop.
Mr.Dean sat at his window watching the villagers pass by. His face was not one of spite but one of sorrow. Tears filled his eyes and they began to trickle down his cheeks. ‘I didn’t mean for this to happen’ he sobbed. ‘It’s all my fault’. He started to cry uncontrollably. He couldn’t stop. He had never cried before in his life and now he just couldn’t stop.
Outside in his garden lay a grave with these words written upon it;
‘Mrs.Dean, a beloved wife and mother, brutally murdered on a Halloween night. She will always be remembered.’
