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Night Visions

The big orange moon hangs low in the blackened sky. Misty silver-gray clouds slowly creep over its brightness. I can almost envision the dark silhouette of a witch gliding on her broom across the illuminated ball.

It is the night of witches, ghosts and goblins as well as a few Powerpuff girls. As the last of the tiny, wondering creatures comb the neighborhood armed with tricks in search of treats, the party at the old Winters' house is just getting started.

The brisk wind shrewdly grabs the crumpled, dead leaves and scatters them helplessly across the sidewalk and cobblestone street as I hurry to reach the vacant house with its overgrown yard and faded gray exterior. The well-worn wooden fence that surrounds the old structure, creeks and moans in the blustery darkness. (Funny, I don't remember hearing those noises at Easter.)

My black cape violently flaps around me. If I were a real bat, I could probably fly.

Moody music drifts from the dimly lit house. As I open the gate a frightened cat jumps through and startles me. A single lantern hangs above the porch, swinging angrily back and forth, making it hard to see the stairs. Spider webs eerily line the porch as if they were store bought decorations. The front door won't open so the party must be out back, I think, as I clutch my hood and run around to the side of the rickety building.

As I make my way around the house, in the darkest of shadows I see something unusual behind the lilac bush. My heart races and I come to a dead stop. It is probably one of my friends playing a joke on me, I hope. Then I blink my eyes and catch my breath: Is that the pale face of old Mr. Winters? It can't be. He died when I was a child. This old house has been abandoned for years. But I remember his features so well, pallor and cold even before his death.

Frozen and afraid to move closer, I hold my breath and stand completely still in hopes he won't see me. The back of my neck tingles and my skin crawls. As my breath chokes in my throat, I let out a low shrill scream. Suddenly, the frightening image disappears in a puff of white smoke that drifts into the darkness, and I hear laughter coming from the backyard.

Once my numb legs are free to move again, I run around to the back of the house. I see corn roasting on an open fire creating thick puffs of white smoke that float off into the night sky. But none of them resemble the face of old man Winters.

Learn more about this author, Kenda Robertson.
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