Milan Smith has published 25 short stories in various magazines, including Cynic Online Magazine (July 2007),
Midnight Times (Nov. 2007), and Crimson Highway (Apr. 2008.) After he got his B.S. degree in business from
the University of Florida, he worked in the business world for two years and hated it. Then he got job as a
reporter for a year and hated that. Finally, he decided to try writing, and now works part-time at night and
writes during the mornings and he loves it.
Midnight Times (Nov. 2007), and Crimson Highway (Apr. 2008.) After he got his B.S. degree in business from
the University of Florida, he worked in the business world for two years and hated it. Then he got job as a
reporter for a year and hated that. Finally, he decided to try writing, and now works part-time at night and
writes during the mornings and he loves it.
Tricks for Treats
Imagine this: It's Halloween night, darkness has fallen hard on Thompson Street, and the shadows lie thick between the
trees while unseen things snuffle in the bushes. The lighting is bad here, few streetlights, and only an occasional porch light
stabs through the darkness as branches stretch out to caress those passing by.
Along this road walk a pirate and a princess, a goblin and a fairy, a soldier and a ghost. These creatures laugh and titter as
they walk, swinging plastic bags full of treasure, unafraid that Thompson Street is long, dark, and accused of being haunted.
These are now grown-up kids of 10, 11 and 12, and no longer six- or seven-year-old babies.
The pirate, with a black mustache hanging past his chin, leads the way, and his boots crunch on the gravel of the unpaved
street. He's unafraid as he leads his motley band onward, as pirates are meant to be.
The little group has hit each house on the street, and now gathers in a circle. The pirate looks on them and notices the
ghost for the first time, a tall blob of white in the gloom, and for a moment wonders who it is, but as the leader he now has
other things to think about. "That's the last house," the pirate says, "let's go back to Johnson Road."
"No, it's not," the soldier says, pointing past the pirate's shoulder. "Look, there's one more."
The pirate turns and squints, and he sees. Yes, there was one more house, and there was the porch light, dark red, and it
made the dangling branches glow like bloody arms, and that somehow seems more frightening than the plain darkness
around them.
"Okay," the pirate says, "it's the last one." He turns and leads the band onward, and the others begin to talk and laugh,
now nervous at being so far away from the better-lit streets, so far into the thick dark, but none admits it.
As they near the home with the red porch light, something rustles in the leaves a few feet away, and all stop at once. The
rustling stops too, but only for a moment, then it slowly starts again, moving towards them, and the members of the band
huddle closer until they stand in a tight knot.
"Who is it?" The pirate asks, his voice quaking. "You better come out right now."
The others are silent, frozen where they stand. They stare hard into the gloom, waiting, afraid. More rustling, and the
soldier begins to shake, his teeth clacking.
"You better stop it," the pirate says, his voice rising to a high-pitched squeak. His shoves his plastic sword out before him,
and tries to be brave.
The rustling grows louder and faster and suddenly a man stands before them, tall and thin, dressed in black. They can't see
his face, but can tell in the moonlight that he wears a mask - a bone-white mask. The man stands silent, towering above
them, and the group stares wide-eyed. The man has a knife, they all see it, and the soldier makes choking sounds.
Then the man is upon them, roaring, and he plucks out the ghost, who screams and kicks, and they see the knife rise and
fall, rise and fall, digging deep into the ghost's chest. And the blood! Cold, sticky blood squirts everywhere and wets the
group and splatters the princess in the face and she screams. Then the pirate yells as do the others and the motley band
runs off, dropping sword and wand and plastic bags, and becomes a howling mob dashing down the road, and they don't
stop until they're far away from Thompson Street, to where the lights are bright and the streets are crowded.
Now imagine this: A father and son sit on a swing in the shadows of their front porch, hair sweat-plastered to their heads.
As they gently move back and forth the swing squeaks - the only sound now except for the crickets chirping in the brush -
and the red porch light tints their skin orange. They occasionally reach into little plastic bags that lie at their feet and pull
out pieces of candy. The boy, tall for his age, sits close to his father, and looks up at him and smiles. Tall and bony, the
man puts his hand on the boy's shoulder, and the boy hugs his father for a moment. Then the boy leans forward to reach
in one of the bags, and hands something to his father.
"Try this one, it's butterscotch."
"Thanks," the father says, and takes the candy. "Here, try one of these. But be careful, they're a bit tart."
As the boy sucks on the candy he puckers, and the two eat in silence, staring out into the dark street, wondering if anyone
will walk down the driveway. The father then looks at his son and asks, "Did you have fun tonight?"
"Yeah, it was great. It was the best trick ever. But I think the ketchup ruined my shirt. Mom's gonna be mad."
"That's okay," the man says, "it was worth it. We had some fun, didn't we?"
"Yeah, we did. They screamed so loud, I bet people could hear them for miles."
"Probably," the father says. He unwraps a piece of chocolate and lays it under his tongue. "We put a lot of work in this, I'm
glad it went off so well."
"Do you think we could do this again next year, Dad?"
"Of course, I'm looking forward to it. But next time, let's not be so nice. Next time, let's really scare 'em."
"Sure, how?"
The man stares at the driveway for a moment, thinking. Something comes to mind, he frowns and cocks his head. He looks
down along the porch, at the darkened windows, and he sees a candle flicker to life, yellow and pale, the light dancing
against the glass. The man smiles and turns back to the boy. "I've got it. There's a box I left in the living room, it has
some things that might work. Why don't you go get it?"
"What's in it?" the boy asks, and hops to his feet.
"Things we didn't have time for this year. Bring it out and we'll take a look."
The boy runs to the front door, laughing, then stops. "Where is it?" He asks.
"In the living room," the man says. "By the couch."
The boy steps inside, and as the door shuts, the man lays another piece of chocolate under his tongue. He looks out onto
the street, searching for latecomers, hoping someone would come. Now would be a good time, he thinks, but disappointed,
he sees no one. The man sighs, leans back, and waits. A moment later, from inside the house, the boy screams.
The man turns to the door as the boy runs through it and stomps onto the porch, his feet covered in blood. "Dad, Dad!"
the boy shrieks. The boy leaves bloody footprints as he runs to his father. "Oh god Dad, someone's killed mom! There's
blood everywhere! They cut her with a knife!"
The man stares dumbly as the boy claws at his arm.
"Dad, c'mon! It's horrible, I can see her heart beating! And she's still alive, she's crying for help!"
The man jumps up and grabs his son's shoulders. "Are you serious?" The man yells. "Is this a joke? This is a pretty damn
sick joke."
"No, Dad, no," the boys screams, arms flailing, "it's bad, bad, bad... "
"This is crazy."
"Dad, they cut her up! They cut her up!"
"Cut her up? What are you talking about? Where's your sister?"
"Dad, they cut her up!"
The man shakes the boy's shoulders. "Son, listen to me." The boy cries and his body jerks, and the man shakes him again.
"Stop it and listen! Do you hear me?" The boy stops and nods, his shoulders quivering. "Can you tell me something?
This is important, can you tell me one thing?"
The boy nods again.
"Son, are you listening?"
"Yes," the boy says, then sobs and clutches his head. "Dad!"
"Son, look at me. Right now, look at me. " The boy now stops and stares at his father. "Son, tell me, this is important,
alright? Listen. Now tell me, what you just saw, what you just heard - would that work for next Halloween?"
Imagine this: It's Halloween night, darkness has fallen hard on Thompson Street, and the shadows lie thick between the
trees while unseen things snuffle in the bushes. The lighting is bad here, few streetlights, and only an occasional porch light
stabs through the darkness as branches stretch out to caress those passing by.
Along this road walk a pirate and a princess, a goblin and a fairy, a soldier and a ghost. These creatures laugh and titter as
they walk, swinging plastic bags full of treasure, unafraid that Thompson Street is long, dark, and accused of being haunted.
These are now grown-up kids of 10, 11 and 12, and no longer six- or seven-year-old babies.
The pirate, with a black mustache hanging past his chin, leads the way, and his boots crunch on the gravel of the unpaved
street. He's unafraid as he leads his motley band onward, as pirates are meant to be.
The little group has hit each house on the street, and now gathers in a circle. The pirate looks on them and notices the
ghost for the first time, a tall blob of white in the gloom, and for a moment wonders who it is, but as the leader he now has
other things to think about. "That's the last house," the pirate says, "let's go back to Johnson Road."
"No, it's not," the soldier says, pointing past the pirate's shoulder. "Look, there's one more."
The pirate turns and squints, and he sees. Yes, there was one more house, and there was the porch light, dark red, and it
made the dangling branches glow like bloody arms, and that somehow seems more frightening than the plain darkness
around them.
"Okay," the pirate says, "it's the last one." He turns and leads the band onward, and the others begin to talk and laugh,
now nervous at being so far away from the better-lit streets, so far into the thick dark, but none admits it.
As they near the home with the red porch light, something rustles in the leaves a few feet away, and all stop at once. The
rustling stops too, but only for a moment, then it slowly starts again, moving towards them, and the members of the band
huddle closer until they stand in a tight knot.
"Who is it?" The pirate asks, his voice quaking. "You better come out right now."
The others are silent, frozen where they stand. They stare hard into the gloom, waiting, afraid. More rustling, and the
soldier begins to shake, his teeth clacking.
"You better stop it," the pirate says, his voice rising to a high-pitched squeak. His shoves his plastic sword out before him,
and tries to be brave.
The rustling grows louder and faster and suddenly a man stands before them, tall and thin, dressed in black. They can't see
his face, but can tell in the moonlight that he wears a mask - a bone-white mask. The man stands silent, towering above
them, and the group stares wide-eyed. The man has a knife, they all see it, and the soldier makes choking sounds.
Then the man is upon them, roaring, and he plucks out the ghost, who screams and kicks, and they see the knife rise and
fall, rise and fall, digging deep into the ghost's chest. And the blood! Cold, sticky blood squirts everywhere and wets the
group and splatters the princess in the face and she screams. Then the pirate yells as do the others and the motley band
runs off, dropping sword and wand and plastic bags, and becomes a howling mob dashing down the road, and they don't
stop until they're far away from Thompson Street, to where the lights are bright and the streets are crowded.
Now imagine this: A father and son sit on a swing in the shadows of their front porch, hair sweat-plastered to their heads.
As they gently move back and forth the swing squeaks - the only sound now except for the crickets chirping in the brush -
and the red porch light tints their skin orange. They occasionally reach into little plastic bags that lie at their feet and pull
out pieces of candy. The boy, tall for his age, sits close to his father, and looks up at him and smiles. Tall and bony, the
man puts his hand on the boy's shoulder, and the boy hugs his father for a moment. Then the boy leans forward to reach
in one of the bags, and hands something to his father.
"Try this one, it's butterscotch."
"Thanks," the father says, and takes the candy. "Here, try one of these. But be careful, they're a bit tart."
As the boy sucks on the candy he puckers, and the two eat in silence, staring out into the dark street, wondering if anyone
will walk down the driveway. The father then looks at his son and asks, "Did you have fun tonight?"
"Yeah, it was great. It was the best trick ever. But I think the ketchup ruined my shirt. Mom's gonna be mad."
"That's okay," the man says, "it was worth it. We had some fun, didn't we?"
"Yeah, we did. They screamed so loud, I bet people could hear them for miles."
"Probably," the father says. He unwraps a piece of chocolate and lays it under his tongue. "We put a lot of work in this, I'm
glad it went off so well."
"Do you think we could do this again next year, Dad?"
"Of course, I'm looking forward to it. But next time, let's not be so nice. Next time, let's really scare 'em."
"Sure, how?"
The man stares at the driveway for a moment, thinking. Something comes to mind, he frowns and cocks his head. He looks
down along the porch, at the darkened windows, and he sees a candle flicker to life, yellow and pale, the light dancing
against the glass. The man smiles and turns back to the boy. "I've got it. There's a box I left in the living room, it has
some things that might work. Why don't you go get it?"
"What's in it?" the boy asks, and hops to his feet.
"Things we didn't have time for this year. Bring it out and we'll take a look."
The boy runs to the front door, laughing, then stops. "Where is it?" He asks.
"In the living room," the man says. "By the couch."
The boy steps inside, and as the door shuts, the man lays another piece of chocolate under his tongue. He looks out onto
the street, searching for latecomers, hoping someone would come. Now would be a good time, he thinks, but disappointed,
he sees no one. The man sighs, leans back, and waits. A moment later, from inside the house, the boy screams.
The man turns to the door as the boy runs through it and stomps onto the porch, his feet covered in blood. "Dad, Dad!"
the boy shrieks. The boy leaves bloody footprints as he runs to his father. "Oh god Dad, someone's killed mom! There's
blood everywhere! They cut her with a knife!"
The man stares dumbly as the boy claws at his arm.
"Dad, c'mon! It's horrible, I can see her heart beating! And she's still alive, she's crying for help!"
The man jumps up and grabs his son's shoulders. "Are you serious?" The man yells. "Is this a joke? This is a pretty damn
sick joke."
"No, Dad, no," the boys screams, arms flailing, "it's bad, bad, bad... "
"This is crazy."
"Dad, they cut her up! They cut her up!"
"Cut her up? What are you talking about? Where's your sister?"
"Dad, they cut her up!"
The man shakes the boy's shoulders. "Son, listen to me." The boy cries and his body jerks, and the man shakes him again.
"Stop it and listen! Do you hear me?" The boy stops and nods, his shoulders quivering. "Can you tell me something?
This is important, can you tell me one thing?"
The boy nods again.
"Son, are you listening?"
"Yes," the boy says, then sobs and clutches his head. "Dad!"
"Son, look at me. Right now, look at me. " The boy now stops and stares at his father. "Son, tell me, this is important,
alright? Listen. Now tell me, what you just saw, what you just heard - would that work for next Halloween?"
Milan Smith
