I Hear You Knockin’

Last night, Mischief Night (aka Devil’s Night, Gates Night, Mizzy Night, et al.), passed relatively uneventfully in my neighborhood – no signs of eggings and the like. As far as I can tell by the news, places with a history of more serious offenses (e.g. arson) have been fairly quiet too. This is one case in which the modern teen’s preference for the virtual world over the real one is a positive benefit to the rest of us: they can smash digital pumpkins to their hearts’ content in video games. (I always wondered, by the way, where the parents thought their teens were going when they left the house on Mischief Night.) The pranks continued on Halloween itself. These have eased up in recent years too.
 
While I trick-or-treated with the other kids when growing up (we traveled in unsupervised packs in those more innocent days), my teens were spent without Halloween parties. My dad was a builder and there was always a need to guard separate construction sites, which were a special draw to marauding kids and teens. If you want to spend a truly spooky Halloween, spend it (with no cell phone) in an unlit, unfinished house on a dark wooded lot. I didn’t fear ghosts. I worried about encounters with the all-too-human, but I guess my mere presence was scary too, because I never saw anyone. Any damage was always on a property that was unguarded – we couldn’t be on all of them all of the time.

Sharon and I, probably 1955

I don’t have to worry about that anymore. Nowadays I just have to remember to buy candy. Odds are I will not have any kids at the door tonight. Years pass between that happening. My driveway is well over 300 feet (100m) and flanked by dark woods in an area frequented by bears. Kids simply do not walk up it. When I do get them at the door they were driven up the driveway by parents who live in the immediate neighborhood. I keep a candy bucket at the ready just in case that happens. It probably won’t, so I’ll need to pace myself on consuming the contents of the bucket in the coming months.
 
I might hear knocks that seem to come from the door, but that happens every night and there rarely is anyone there. My house groans, creaks, and knocks as it expands and contracts with the weather and with the vagaries of the forced air heating system. Guests, less accustomed to the sounds than I, sometimes tell me the house is haunted. I don’t believe in such things, but even if I’m wrong I don’t mind. Any spirit that meant me ill-will would have demonstrated that intent sometime in the past 21 years that I’ve owned the place. Just as in my teen years I worry more about the all-too-human, the tax-collector for one. Fourth Quarter property taxes are due tomorrow. Now that’s scary.
 

John Fogerty - Haunted House