Garrison Keillor: Halloween.

"Halloween was last night. Children went out trick-or-treating, dressed as hobos or rich glamorous people, and some kids went as grownups: wore dark dowdy clothes, walked stiff, talked funny, and got sore at everybody. The candy they received, and sweet rolls and apples and quarters, they richly deserved. It was the end of October, when the long dark places between houses seem to reach out for you, poor innocent child, and draw you toward the shadows.

"Most of the trees have lost their leaves, except one old maple across from Clint and Irene Bunsen's, which was slow to turn color, a luminous phosphorescent yellow -- at night, with the streetlight behind it. It was so bright you could read by it. Most other trees were bare, so sound travels farther, and last night, in the middle of supper, you could hear a door slam half a block away, and hear seven fast sharp footsteps, XXXXXXX. The door whanged when it hit the frame and bounced back open, and there were seven slow footsteps going back to shut it. Thunk. Everyone around the supper table stopped chewing. A man's voice: 'Get in here! It servers you right!' And a boy:'I can't talk to you, you're crazy!' Forks hovered as everyone around the table held their breath, waiting for the gunshot. The door was opened and closed, and there were muffled angry voices. My mother sighed, 'I always dread the week before an election.' she said."

The Raven:

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