We had worked our way over by my school when Grace led us down a small, dead-end street with pumpkins smashed in the middle of the road. The houses were smaller than the homes on the other streets we’d been to and not as well cared for. A couple of the homes had dilapidated cars parked in their front yards, with flat tires or wheels missing altogether.

“This doesn’t look like a good street,” Joel said. “Let’s go down a different one.”

“I second that,” I said.

Grace continued on as if she hadn’t heard us. She walked past several homes then stopped at the edge of the yard of a small bungalow. The home was pretty much the same size and construction of the other houses on the street, but it was in even worse shape. The yard was engulfed by orange-berried Firethorn bushes that also spilled over and poked through the front and side chainlink fence. One of the windows was broken and was covered with a sheet of plywood held in place with duct tape.

The sidewalk in front of the home hadn’t been shoveled but had been tramped down, probably by earlier trick-or-treaters.

There was a motorcycle and an old red Ford pick-up truck in the driveway as well as another pick-up that was hoisted up on cinder blocks.

Grace just stared at the house. The curtains over the picture window were drawn but a light was on and I could see the silhouette of a woman moving around inside.

“Do you know who lives here?” I asked.

She didn’t move.

“Grace?”

She turned to me with a peculiar look in her eyes. “This was my house.”

My heart raced. “You shouldn’t be here.”

She just turned back and looked at the house. “Would you ring the doorbell?”

“What?”

“Please.”

I glanced back at the house then again at her. “Are you sure?”

“I want to see my mother.”

Joel stood next to me silently staring at the house. I could tell he was afraid. I suppose I was too. I took a deep breath. “All right. Come on, Joel.”

We went to the front gate and opened it then marched up the walk. There were no pumpkins or Halloween decorations but I didn’t think the house needed them. It was kind of scary already.

“Trick or treat,” I yelled. Joel said it too, but almost inaudibly.

After another minute I went to ring the doorbell but it was covered over by duct tape on which was written “Doesn’t work.” I knocked instead. I was glad when no one came and was ready to go when I heard footsteps. The door opened. A balding man stood in the doorway. He was taller than my dad, and had a large belly. He wore a white sweat-stained sleeveless T-shirt and his pants were secured by suspenders. He held an open can of beer.

“Trick or treat,” I said.