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I.
In the hush before dusk on All Hallows’ Eve,
When the wind scratches softly at shingles and eaves,
The children emerge in their costumes adorned,
While chimney-smoke dances and pumpkins are warmed.


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II.
They march in procession, sugar in sight,
Through cul-de-sacs dreaming in sodium light.
With sacks that swing and masks askew,
They chant the liturgy: “Trick or treat — boo!”


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III.
The doors swing open with syrupy grins,
Parents as pirates with bowls full of sins.
Chocolate coins and caramel lace
Stick to fingers in ghostly embrace.


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IV.
But the rhythm will shift at the end of the lane,
Where a house hunches down in perennial rain.
It leans like a sigh with its shutters drawn tight—
The house never speaks, but it watches the night.


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V.
With gingerbread trails and jellybean tracks,
The children steer clear, never turning their backs.
For whispers like rustlings drift through the weeds,
And the wind knows a name that nobody repeats.


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VI.
They say there was once, in a season now past,
A boy who dared knock, then vanished too fast.
The house took him in with a crack and a groan,
And all that was left was his flashlight — alone.


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VII.
Windows like eyelids, tight in disdain,
Refuse every echo of laughter or name.
And the steps, like old verses half-forgotten in snow,
Are slick with regret and the grime of woe.


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VIII.
A woman once lived there, or so the tale goes,
With three clocks that ticked in perpetual throes.
She brewed bitter tea with a teaspoon of coal
And stared through her curtains as if counting souls.


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IX.
The cat still remains, though no one has fed it.
It blinks in the attic, like it almost regrets it.
Some claim it can speak when the moon is just right,
But its words are like shadows: thin, brittle, and white.


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X.
Still, once in a decade (or so it is told),
One child is tempted — too brazen, too bold.
They march to the door with the courage of flame,
And knock three short knocks… then forget their own name.


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XI.
So the children pass by with a reverent tone,
Their candy bags heavy, their chatter all gone.
The wind holds its breath as the hedges grow thin—
Even leaves hesitate to rustle that bin.


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XII.
And though no one has seen her, the Woman still waits,
By a clock that ticks backward and grandfathered gates.
She hums something distant, not meant for the ear—
A song for the vanished, not meant for the here.


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XIII.
Thus the street carries on, with its sparkle and fright,
Each Halloween passing, avoiding the blight.
For children know truths that adults won’t recall—
There are doors on this night...
that should not be knocked at all.


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