lads? Think! People vanished forever. They died, oh Lord,
they died! but came back in dreams. Those dreams were called Ghosts,
and frightened men in every age-”
“Ah!” cried a billion voices from attics and basements.
Shadows climbed walls like old films rerun in ancient theaters. Puffs
of smoke lingered at doors with sad eyes and gibbering mouths.
“Night and day. Summer and winter, boys. Seedtime and harvest. Life and
death. That’s what Halloween is, all rolled up in one. Noon and
midnight. Being born, boys. Rolling over, playing dead like dogs, lads.
And getting up again, barking, racing through thousands of years of
death each day and each night Halloween, boys, every night, every single night dark and fearful until at last you made it and hid in
cities and towns and had some rest and could get your breath.
“And you began to live longer and have more time, and space out the
deaths, and put away fear, and at last have only special days in each
year when you thought of night and dawn and spring and autumn and being
born and being dead.
“And it all adds
up. Four thousand years ago, one hundred years ago, this year, one
place or another, but the celebrations all the same —”
“The Feast of Samhain—”
“The Time of the Dead Ones—”
“All Souls’. All Saints’.”
“The Day of the Dead.”
“El Dia De Muerte.”
“All Hallows’.”
“Halloween.”
The boys sent their frail voices up, up through the levels of time, from all the countries, and all the ages, naming the holidays which were the same.
“Good, lads, good.”
Far off, the town clock struck three quarters after eleven.
“Almost midnight, boys. Halloween’s almost over.”
“But!” cried Tom. “What about Pipkin? We followed him through history, burying him, digging him up, walking him in parades, crying him in wakes. Is or isn’t he alive?”
“Yeah!” said everyone. “Did we save him?”
“Did you, indeed?”
Moundshroud stared. They stared with him, across the ravine to a building where lights were going out.
“That’s his hospital, boys. But check his house. The final knock of the night, the last grand trick or treat. Go ask for final answers. Mr. Marley, see them out!”
The front door flew wide—bang!
The Marley knocker on the door gaped its bandaged jaw and whistled them farewell as the boys slid down the banisters and raced for the door.
They were stopped by a final shout from Moundshroud: “Boys! Well, which was it? Tonight, with me—trick or treat?”
The boys took a vast breath, held it, burst it out: “Gosh, Mr. Moundshroud— both!”
Rap! went the Marley knocker.
Slam! went the door.
And the boys were gone running, running down through the ravine and up along the street gasping hot gusts of air, their masks falling to be trampled until at last they stopped on Pipkin’s sidewalk and looked at the far hospital and back at Pipkin’s front door.
“You go, Tom, you,” said Ralph.
And Tom slowly edged up to the house and put his foot on the front step and then the second step up and approached the door, afraid to knock, afraid to find the final answer about dear old Pipkin. Pipkin dead? Pipkin in a last funeral? Pipkin, Pipkin gone forever? No!
He tapped at the door.
The boys waited on the sidewalk.
The door opened. Tom went in. There was a long moment of the boys on the sidewalk standing cold and letting the wind freeze their most awful thoughts.
Well? they yelled silently in at the house, the shut door, the dark windows, well? well? What?
And then at last the door opened again, and Tom came out and stood on the porch not knowing where he was.
Then Tom looked up and saw his friends waiting for him a million miles off.
Tom leaped off the porch, yelling.
“Oh gosh, oh gosh, oh, Gosh!”
He ran along the sidewalk, shrieking: “He’s okay, he’s all right, he’s okay! Pipkin’s in the hospital! took his appendix out at nine tonight! got it just in time! doctor says
they died! but came back in dreams. Those dreams were called Ghosts,
and frightened men in every age-”
“Ah!” cried a billion voices from attics and basements.
Shadows climbed walls like old films rerun in ancient theaters. Puffs
of smoke lingered at doors with sad eyes and gibbering mouths.
“Night and day. Summer and winter, boys. Seedtime and harvest. Life and
death. That’s what Halloween is, all rolled up in one. Noon and
midnight. Being born, boys. Rolling over, playing dead like dogs, lads.
And getting up again, barking, racing through thousands of years of
death each day and each night Halloween, boys, every night, every single night dark and fearful until at last you made it and hid in
cities and towns and had some rest and could get your breath.
“And you began to live longer and have more time, and space out the
deaths, and put away fear, and at last have only special days in each
year when you thought of night and dawn and spring and autumn and being
born and being dead.
“And it all adds
up. Four thousand years ago, one hundred years ago, this year, one
place or another, but the celebrations all the same —”
“The Feast of Samhain—”
“The Time of the Dead Ones—”
“All Souls’. All Saints’.”
“The Day of the Dead.”
“El Dia De Muerte.”
“All Hallows’.”
“Halloween.”
The boys sent their frail voices up, up through the levels of time, from all the countries, and all the ages, naming the holidays which were the same.
“Good, lads, good.”
Far off, the town clock struck three quarters after eleven.
“Almost midnight, boys. Halloween’s almost over.”
“But!” cried Tom. “What about Pipkin? We followed him through history, burying him, digging him up, walking him in parades, crying him in wakes. Is or isn’t he alive?”
“Yeah!” said everyone. “Did we save him?”
“Did you, indeed?”
Moundshroud stared. They stared with him, across the ravine to a building where lights were going out.
“That’s his hospital, boys. But check his house. The final knock of the night, the last grand trick or treat. Go ask for final answers. Mr. Marley, see them out!”
The front door flew wide—bang!
The Marley knocker on the door gaped its bandaged jaw and whistled them farewell as the boys slid down the banisters and raced for the door.
They were stopped by a final shout from Moundshroud: “Boys! Well, which was it? Tonight, with me—trick or treat?”
The boys took a vast breath, held it, burst it out: “Gosh, Mr. Moundshroud— both!”
Rap! went the Marley knocker.
Slam! went the door.
And the boys were gone running, running down through the ravine and up along the street gasping hot gusts of air, their masks falling to be trampled until at last they stopped on Pipkin’s sidewalk and looked at the far hospital and back at Pipkin’s front door.
“You go, Tom, you,” said Ralph.
And Tom slowly edged up to the house and put his foot on the front step and then the second step up and approached the door, afraid to knock, afraid to find the final answer about dear old Pipkin. Pipkin dead? Pipkin in a last funeral? Pipkin, Pipkin gone forever? No!
He tapped at the door.
The boys waited on the sidewalk.
The door opened. Tom went in. There was a long moment of the boys on the sidewalk standing cold and letting the wind freeze their most awful thoughts.
Well? they yelled silently in at the house, the shut door, the dark windows, well? well? What?
And then at last the door opened again, and Tom came out and stood on the porch not knowing where he was.
Then Tom looked up and saw his friends waiting for him a million miles off.
Tom leaped off the porch, yelling.
“Oh gosh, oh gosh, oh, Gosh!”
He ran along the sidewalk, shrieking: “He’s okay, he’s all right, he’s okay! Pipkin’s in the hospital! took his appendix out at nine tonight! got it just in time! doctor says
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