Halloween Haunts: Dirty Ghost by David Ghilardi
“I’ll trade you three Clark bars for one Snickers.” Jerry said.
My little brother nodded. They made the candy exchange quickly, both satisfied with what they considered a total score. They both ripped into the candy like sharks. Jerry had never found a food group he didn’t like. We all were pillaging from our full bags of treasure.
It was a great night. We had scored big.
One of the only Halloween’s in memory where it had not rained, in Chicago, that was a miracle. It was building though, you could feel it. The weather was changing, pressing at my skin through the fabric of my skeleton costume. It was humid. Cicadas were our soundtrack, along with the screams of joy from other figures of children in the dark. The smell of burning leaves hung in the air. We were sweaty chocoholics.
The chatter of kids was all around us. We could see the capes, the wands, and the plastic pumpkin candy containers that were so popular. (Mom said we couldn’t afford one that year, so paper bags would have to do). My feet were numb. All three of us had been walking for hours. The excitement of Halloween burned like a cinder in my chest. All day, anticipation of unknown plunder had been our life’s blood as we thumped up countless steps hoping for a mother lode. What would we get? What awesomeness would be thrust into those yawning maws? New candy: Skittles, Reeses, Seven-up Candy bar, Payday, Zagnut, Marathon, the names were endless. I smiled at the weight in my hands, so much there, so much to eat!
It was that golden time just after dusk yet right before absolute night. The time when little kids like us could roam for sugarlicious booty, on the hunt for the last few houses where lights remained on, at the precise time people wanted to dump their final vestiges of candy having had enough of our costumed cuteness. For some reason, adults always tired of Halloween sooner than us kids. I thought it was because they were old and needed more sleepy time.
I had forced my 6 year old brother to march with us across Pulaski Avenue where the rich people lived in those brick houses. They could afford better quality candy. The folks along Avondale Avenue, had come home, had a few stiff ones after amusing themselves with all the cute little children in costumes, all those, “Isn’t that Suzy in the Cleopatra dress?”-like questions from their door, before finally getting weary of the routine, as old people did, preferring to dump all their remaining candy, turn off the outside lights and succumb to more alcohol and watch that Johnny Carson guy on their expensive color television sets. That’s when we wanted to pounce. Their ennui was our opportunity.
We were opportunists to be sure. But petty? Never. We dreamed of all those remaining huge candy bars, caramel apples, long Pixie sticks, bowl of pennies, large bags of popcorn. How much loot could we score before my little brother’s complaining would force us to groan and return home? We had been on a quest to fill our Jewel Supermarket bags to the brim. (I even had my Mom double bag them as protection against tragic rips or healthy bursting).
There was chocolate treasure out there to be snatched before the middle school kids or even worse, the heinous high-schoolers left their parties seeking to be cruel spoilers and cause havoc upon we true believers. No one wanted their precious haul to be stolen by lazy big kids.
We had decided to cross St Viator’s parking lot. There was a cool shortcut between the school and rectory, made even more awesome by the fact that new tar had just been poured on the asphalt and was dry enough to cross. It smelled amazing! As a boy, it was one of the top three scents, along with baseball leather and cheeseburgers and fries.
Jerry ran ahead of my brother, Paul and I to check to see that no sisters were around. Nuns all hated Halloween. We wanted to avoid the sisters’ sneers and disapproving snarls. No kid had ever figured out why the nuns never liked to be happy. It appeared the Sisters of Mercy had none.
“It’s the Devil’s Eve,” opined Sister Agnes the day before in my fourth grade class. No one dared giggle in her presence. No one wanted to risk the slap of a ruler across their hand.
Jerry waved us all clear.
Munching on candy corn, and this new joiner, Reese’s peanut butter cups, I was content. Whoever conceived of mixing peanut butter with chocolate was a genius. My brother Paul was eating his Snickers, which would take him awhile as he had new teeth. Jerry ignored caution and the specter of hidden razor blades, crunching away on a caramel apple with nuts. Jerry would eat concrete if hungry enough.
Sweet sugar and fresh tar warred in our nostrils. We were blissful, as we crossed the wide open parking lot drying for next Sunday’s Mass. There was yellow caution tape stretched across orange saw horses but we ducked underneath it. As long as the nuns were hibernating from joy, we were safe.
Kid laughter was heard from nearby streets and “A Whole Lotta Love” was blasting from an open window of the alley. Jerry told me his brother loved that band, The Lead Zeppelins. We were in fourth grade still. Rock and roll remained a vibrant mystery to us. Specifics were a couple years away, we only had the basic brush strokes.
I looked down into my bottomless bag for more fuel when something exploded on the back of my little brother’s head. Objects whizzed by my face splattering near us on the new black lot. My brother cried out in shock.
Jerry closed his bag still holding his apple and ran past us.
“Move it!” He yelled. “Creezus!”
Eggs rained down upon us, like an invading army’s battery of arrows.
A chubby pirate, skinny skeleton, and a small dirty ghost bumbled like chickens along the fence line of the parking lot. We bumped into each other as we scattered from the ovoid barrage. The gates were closed, adorned with yellow caution tape, but we knew of the rent in the fence. It was our escape. Eggs continued to rain on us, hitting the fence, splattering us with yolk and shell, the smell overpowering our fear.
I glanced back seeing a crowd of demons in the dark, hooting and whistling in their approach. Big kids! Not good to see out on Halloween, especially when terror on little kids was a sanctioned event.
Paul began to cry and turned to me for help. His ghost costume had slipped, covering his eyes. I pulled off his hood and threw it in my bag. I ran in back of him to absorb any more of the eggs falling from above, pushing him on. That made him cry more. Little brothers have an inexhaustible reservoir of tears.
Jerry reached the rented escape first. It was a tear in the fence, the link panel curled back, unfastened as of yet, possibly made by those brigands who were pursuing us in the dark now.
Big kids: Middle school or High, either grades spelled trouble for those of us trying to get a handle on our place on earth. Stuff rolled downwards, Jerry always said. If they caught us tonight, who knew what pain they would cause us, at the very least, they would probably take our hard earned treasure.
We were close to the corner of the gymnasium where the section of chain link fence had been pried away from its post. Eggs were exploding their yolkey goodness all over the brick wall above.
Was that sulfur we smelled? It dripped off the nearby basketball hoops.
Jerry rolled through first, holding open the fence for Paul. I looked back to see the crowd of dark laughing figures walking steadily towards us. My heart beat faster. They could have been zombies for all I knew, clamoring for our flesh. My imagination helped me move faster.
All the rectory lights suddenly came on, shouts of angry nuns adding to the night as they stormed from out of their somber nest. Everyone was shouting and eggs were flung everywhere. It became a nun-egg riot.
Paul cried out my name. My dirty ghost had gotten his costume caught on the barbs of the fence prongs. I quickly tore fabric free from it and pushed my brother under, rolling after him. There were shouts behind us in the alley now. Eggs continued to fall. All three of us sprinted for the corner of the apartment buildings ahead.
It was quite dark now along Keeler Street. Other costumed creatures were celebrating in the shadows. The padding of our feet and our labored breathing was the only music we heard over the maestro of fear. We ran four long blocks looking over our shoulders imagining big kid zombies were after us. My little brother had to stop first, calling out my name. He was breathing fast. At least he had stopped crying.
I wiped my face. I tasted the copper of my blood.
My hand had gotten cut on the metal fence. The blood mixed with the sweetness in my mouth. I could taste it all: Reeces’ peanut butter cups, candy corn, my hot breath, even my sweat.
The little dirty ghost looked up at me, his red face a younger mirror of my own.
“That. Was. Cool.” Paul whispered.
My heart beat fast. We all burst into laughter. I licked my hand again.
The thrill of Halloween had to be savored from all perspectives, not just the culinary.
David Ghilardi is the author of the Dark Chicago series: Olde Irving Park and Dark Shadows of Chicago. He is also writing the strange chronicles of the town of Smythe. To Carol in 17, is first mortar to its bricks. Films he has written and completed: Unlocked, True Justice, Backyard Man, Birds of the Valley (series) and the Horror/Suspense series: MIX. See more at Davidghilardi.com and IMDB. As always, Total Love for my Jazz.
Read a sample from Dark Shadows of Chicago by David Ghilardi.
Olde Irving Park
Some good reading! Awesome!