Children whispered, too. They always whispered. Each year, someone would claim to have seen the missing kid onHalloween. Claim to have spotted him heading into the forest. Some even claimed to have tried to stop him, warn him, call him back. To no avail, they said. They watched, helpless, as he walked into the forest…and never walked out.
I spent two Halloweens patrolling those woods and saw nothing.
The year I turned fifteen, I decided to stop watching. It would be my last time trick-or-treating, and I would make the most of it. If kids were foolish enough to venture into the woods on Halloween night, that was hardly my concern. Or so I told myself, determined to fill my bag and my memories one last time.
When I got home from school on Halloween day, Richie Gibson was there, on my stool, watching my mother make dinner. Richie was eight and had lived down our street all his life, but until this year, he’d been just another neighborhood kid. Then his mom got cancer, and my mother was one of the neighborhood women who stepped in to help—bringing food and taking care of Richie and his dad.
Richie’s mom died six months ago. After that, the other women returned to their lives, as if their obligation ended on her death, forgetting that Richie needed them more than ever now. My mother did not forget. He joined us for dinner a few days a week—it was just the two of us, so there was always room at our table.
I liked Richie. He was a good kid, and he looked up to me, followed me around, wanted to do stuff on weekends. He treated me like the coolest big brother ever, and I liked that.
Soon Richie’s dad had started joining us for dinner, and afterwards, he would stay in the kitchen with my mother and help clean up, and I’d hear them talking and… Well, I wasn’t sure if something was happening there, but I’d be okay with that. Myfather died just after I was born, and Mr. Gibson seemed nice, like Richie.
That day, though, it was just Richie for dinner, and afterwards, my mother said it was time for him to run home and get ready for Halloween.
“What areyougoing to be?” he asked me.
“Cowboy,” I said and mimicked pulling six-guns from my hips, which made him laugh.
“That’s cool,” he said. “I’m going to be a ghost. Again. That’s the only thing Dad could think of.”
“Oh, Richie,” my mother said, coming out from the kitchen. “I wish I’d known. I’d have made you a costume.”
He shrugged. “I’m okay with being a ghost. But a cowboy is way cooler.” He shyly lifted his gaze to mine. “Maybe we can go together. I could carry your guns.”
I hesitated before I said, “Sure, we can do that.”
“No,” my mother said, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “I’m sorry, Richie, but this is Dale’s last Halloween, and he’ll want to spend it with his friends.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll understand?—”
“No.” She slung the towel down and walked to the phone. “I’m calling Mr. Webster. He takes a group with his kids, and I’m sure you can join them.”
“Maybe next year,” I whispered to Richie. “I’ll be your escort, and it’ll be just the two of us. This year, if you want, you can take one of my guns, and you’ll be theghostof a cowboy.”
His thin face lit up. “That’d be cool.”
I patted his shoulder. “Good. Just let me get it.”
Myfriends and I stayed out late trick-or-treating. As I headed home, I found my feet straying toward the forest. I couldn’t help myself.
I was almost there when I spotted a lone figure trudging along the street bordering the forest. A figure draped in a white sheet. A ghost, holding a bag of candy in one hand…and a toy pistol in the other.
“Hey, Richie!” I called as I broke into a jog.
He slowed, and I stopped, ready to wait for him, but he had only slowed to turn up a laneway.
He must have slipped away from Mr. Webster. Easy to lose a kid when you’re in charge of a dozen, all of them in costume. Richie probably felt overwhelmed and wandered off to trick-or-treat on his own, poor kid.
The lights in the house were off, and I began jogging again, to tell Richie it was late, time to go home. When I made it to the house, though, the porch was empty. I ran up to the door and rapped, in case he’d been invited inside.
No one answered, and I peered in to see a dark house.
That’s when I heard dead leaves crunching underfoot. I followed the sound to the backyard and got there just in time to see the white-sheeted figure heading into the forest.
“Richie! No!”
I dropped my loot bag and tore off after him. I kept calling, shouting louder and louder, until there was no way he couldn’t hear me. But he didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. He just kept walking.
