by Hilda Maston
It was Halloween.
In our house on Bullitt Park Place, we were getting ready for a calm and peaceful evening, treating the neighborhood children. On the third floor, Mark (our foster son) was getting his super-duper record player ready to blast every ghost and spirit into next week with his loud noise.
On the cement front porch, we replaced the 50-watt ceiling light with a 30-watt bulb.
A big bowl of treats was left unguarded in the dim light. The far corner of the porch held a rather big, black blob. Scary music from the record player completed the scene.
The first children to come down our path were strangers, and we didn’t recognize any of them. They came onto the porch — shoving, fussing and cussing — and reached into the treat bowl. The atmosphere became tense and really scary for us.
Suddenly the kids spied the black blob in the corner and started talking about it.
They dared each other to touch it. Finally, one youngster, braver than the rest, said, "I’m going to see what that thing is."
The others backed away, marveling at his bravery.
The bold one went over to the motionless blob, and sticking out a shaky finger, touched it.
At his touch, the blob slowly rose up to its full 6'4" height, raised its long arms over its head, and roared.
The kids screamed, jumped, and scattered so quickly that we thought they had melted off the porch. We didn’t see them for the rest of the evening.
That night, I think the word got around that our house had a monster, and that rowdy kids should stay away.