Strings of candy corn laced the bare branches of the tree in the front yard of the old two-story frame house. Ghostly sheets fluttered in the breeze while a cold northeasterly wind tortured the flames of the candles inside the carved pumpkins decorating the front porch. Autumn leaves littered the weed-strewn lawn. The rusted front gate creaked and scraped the walkway when the old man opened it.
The old man carefully stepped over the patches of moss that coated
the walkway. The grey porch steps groaned from his weight while the railing
shed splinters wherever he grabbed hold. There was an area on the porch deck
where nervous pacing had worn away the grey paint. He lifted the long tail of
the bronze squirrel and allowed the knocker to fall. The sound of the squirrel's
bottom hitting the metal plate echoed through the house.
The faint sound of footsteps approached the door. A small
pale face peeped through the window beside it. The old man smiled and offered a
friendly wave. He listened patiently while the locks on the other side were
slowly undone. He heard the creaking of a slide, the turn of a key scraping
against the inside of a deadbolt, and the rustling of a small chain. The last
lock was just out of reach of the small child inside. It was unclear whether
the high lock was meant to keep strangers out or the child inside. Through the
door, he could hear the child struggling to reach the lock. Eventually, the
child grabbed hold of the ancient padlock. Placing its feet against the door
and slowly walking up it, the child was able to pull the lock firmly away from
the door. The nails holding the latch to the door frame gave way, leaving the
waif dangling for a few seconds before dropping to the floor. Slowly, the
crystal doorknob began to turn.
The hinges groaned as the child pulled open the door. She was wearing a pink frock decorated with red roses on the collar. Her pink socks complemented her red patent leather Maryjanes. Her raven hair, tied back with a narrow red ribbon, stood out in sharp contrast to her pale complexion. She barely stood an inch above the doorknob. Her dark brown eyes went well with her sallow cheeks. The old man smiled again at the frail sight in front of him. "Hello, dear child, are your parents at home?" The little girl nodded. "May I come in?" the old man inquired. Again, the child nodded before stepping aside. After the old man entered, he turned to watch the child while she closed the door. He noticed the dangling lock as it slammed against the door frame, shedding a nail in the collision. The dislodged nail slowly fell to the floor then bounced and rolled to the side of the hallway.
The old man watched as the little girl skipped down the long dark hallway. The dimly lit interior of the house was from sunlight filtering through brown stained curtains. Cobwebs occupied the corners of the ceilings. He took a few steps down the hall, stopping to check the two front rooms. Both sitting rooms were empty. Peering through the doorways on the right, he could see into the dining room where several rays of sunlight had punched their way through the yellowed lace curtains. The table was bare except for a candelabra coated in cobwebs and dust. After his eyes adjusted, he saw that there was a solid coating of dust everywhere.
The old man continued down the hallway, stopping to investigate a door beneath the stairs. Inside were shelves full of bags. He reached inside and pulled one out. It was a bag of candy corn. After examining a few more bags, he realized that all the shelves were full of bags of candy corn. There was candy corn of all colors. Some of the bags were decades old. He closed the closet door and moved on down the hallway to the kitchen where he found the girl busy stringing candy corn and pumpkins at the kitchen table. Candy corn was everywhere. The pots on the stove were full of candy corn. All the containers on the counters were full of candy corn. Even the sink overflowed with candy corn. But her parents remained unseen.
The old man made his way back to the bottom of the stairs. Looking up the stairs, he saw nothing but cobwebs and dust. There was no sign that the child had ever left the first floor. Still, he had to know if she were truly alone in the house. He climbed the stairs slowly, pausing to break through dust-ridden cobwebs along the way. At the top of the stairs, he opened the first door. It was an old-fashioned bathroom with a pedestal sink and a clawfoot tub. He turned to the right and opened the next door. Inside the bedroom, he noticed the dust-coated furnishings of a child's room and a slight musty odor. Down the hall, at the front of the house, was an equally dust-covered child's playroom. Headless dolls sat on a bookshelf. An overturned hobby horse lay in the center of the room. Across from the playroom was the guest bedroom. The quilt on the bed had faded from the sunlight pouring in through the open curtains. And down the hall, toward the back of the house, he entered the parent's bedroom. The large bedroom reeked of mold and decay. Dead flies lay gathered in piles around the room covered by layers of dust and cobwebs. Flecks of white, yellow, and orange stood out in contrast to the black bodies of dead flies scattered over the yellowed quilt. Beneath the quilt and yellowed sheets, two skeletons lay in repose. Satisfied that the child was alone, the old man grinned.
The old man walked downstairs and relocked the front door. After picking up the loose nail, he used his thumb to drive it and its companions back into the door jamb. When he arrived in the kitchen doorway, the child was busy carving a pumpkin and humming to herself. He stood for a moment in the doorway and watched her carve the round eyes, a teardrop nose, and grinning mouth. Her skill with a knife was impressive for a child of her tender age. By the time he crept up beside her, she was busy digging out the seeds and pulp with a large wooden spoon. "Sweetie," he implored, "didn't your parents teach you not to invite strangers into your house when you are all alone?" She smiled at the old man before replying in a wispy voice. "Didn't your parents teach you not to go through people's closets?"
The
following morning, the old house had a new decoration on the front porch. The
old man's clothes, stuffed with bags of candy corn, sat in an old rocking chair.
On top was the grinning face of a freshly carved jack-o-lantern. And a small
child was climbing back inside the house through an open window.
