“Maybe. But there’s someone here who’s already in costume.” Rosemary turned to their mother, who was snoring in one of the two queen-size beds—sleeping mask covering her eyes, shower cap over her hair, sheets pulled up to her chin. They cackled.

“Hot damn!”

“Hot damn!”

Raymond bolted from room to room, turning off the lights and checking that every single window and every door was locked. When the house was completely secured and darkened, he activated the alarm system. Armed to Stay, No Delay. He sank into his favorite armchair, whisky by his side, loaded gun on his lap. The curtains remained parted so he could see exactly who or what was coming at him. If he’d simply wished to avoid those candy-grubbers, he would have checked into a motel for the night. No, he was keeping watch. Out the picture window loomed the cropped panorama of houses and hills, twilit guardians of secrets that would never be shared. It was up to him to look out for himself. He knew how tempting a target his home was. It was Halloween.

Then, from somewhere close, the scratching sounds began.

He sat up alert as a hound. With the pistol in his hand, he rose slowly, ears as his guide. Little hands, little fingers, little nails were chipping away furiously at hard wood—a door or a wall, it seemed. Someone was either trying to get in or trying to get out. At the base of the stairs, Raymond realized that the ruckus was coming from upstairs.

He went up the steps steadily, wincing when he released a creak. The scratching instantly ceased. Fuck! He held his breath. Then the scratching resumed, more avidly. He cocked his gun at the top of the stairs, and took a deep breath. The sounds were coming from higher still. The attic. There was a swift patter, a movement from one side of the house to the other. Clearly, something was up there, and it sensed that he was coming.

He pulled down the retractable stairway and climbed toward the attic door. Shine little glow-worm . . . glimmer, glimmer . . .

He sprang open the door. Three gray rats the size of pumpkin-bread loaves stood in the threshold on their hind legs, their tiny pink hands perched in midair like Hanna-Barbera cartoons of themselves. One lost its balance and was about to keel forward when Raymond slammed the door against it. More pitter-patter as the rodents dispersed. And then, shrill critter chatter.

“Jesus! Fuck!”

Where the hell had they come from? Raymond backed down the steps quickly. Out a small window he glimpsed the red-and-white tarp over the Parks’ house and instantly became enraged. He’d seen it, yet he hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t been officially notified. Wasn’t that illegal? He would have made preparations against the rodent exodus.