mr higgins scooped the last of the insides out into the green plastic bucket. it had been a fruitful year. the display on the wall by the porch looked particularly good this year. sat in a row. images lit up. arresting. just the right note for the season. surely, he would win spookiest house again this year. not that anyone would tell him. folks tended to keep away. since that time. no doubt he would read about his prize in the local paper. get the trophy in the mail. no ceremony for him.
satisfied with the result. mr higgins added the harvest to the wall display. placing it on the end. he lit a candle and lowered it inside the hollowed bowl shape. putting the lid on top. the eyes lit up bright like stars. perfect.
he went back into the house. into the kitchen. put the kettle on. sat on the old wooden chair. and waited. they would be here soon enough.

they left the house screaming and laughing. he had done it again. can you believe it? tommy strolled at the back. head down. shamefaced. his mother had been right. this night was not for him. he should have listened to her. instead, he had climbed down the ash tree from his bedroom window. blue bag in hand. joined the school kids laughing along the street. going house to house. but he had done it again.
they walked along the path next to the house. mrs clarke. they said how she always gave the best sweets. the most. there would be a good haul here. there was a pumpkin on the wall making a fine display of glowing eyes and carved features. the sign that sweets were for the taking here. come in.
yuri rang the bell. a big long ring. the door opened. mrs clarke stood there. large bucket of treats in her hand.
‘go mad kids. i have plenty more.’
hands stretched out and grabbed fist fulls. dropped them into their buckets and bags. all except tommy. he stood back. by the gate. too scared to go in. feet rooted at the spot.
‘is that tommy marsden by the gate? come in tommy. grab some.’
tommy stood still. unable to move. hands moist. heart beating.
‘your bag full? ok. never mind.’
the children moved off. mrs clarke shut the door. moment over.
michael peered into tommy’s bag.
‘bloody hell, tommy. i can’t believe you did it again.’ he turned to the other kids, yelling: ‘ hey! tommy did it again!’
a laugh went up. cries of ‘he did it again’ turned into ‘scaredy cat! scaredy cat! tommy is a scaredy cat!’ a scream of cackling laughter rose as the group ran off along the path leaving tommy behind. even michael. they didn’t want to be seen with the loser. the pale kid with no sweets in his bag. the boy too scared to go up to the door. what a scaredy cat. tommy walked the street alone. sick yellow light of the street lamps casting shadows.
the other children were gone. tommy stood by the path that led up to the old house. big white building, large windows, porch. well-kept garden. rose bushes and tall things. tommy’s knowledge of plants wasn’t good. should he try here or head home? surely, a house this big would give the best sweets? it was worth a try. mustering up his courage, tommy headed up the path. past the neatly trimmed bushes. the stone bird table with a lillipad in the middle. a large tree’s branches hung low over the garden and path. leaves turned oranges, browns, and yellows.
as he neared the house he saw the display on the wall. it had to be the best in town. the other kids would regret missing that. a row of twisted faces lit with glowing eyes. some had rows of sharp pointe fangs, razor sharp. others, a single spiked tooth poking up. and some with tombstones in their mouths. the noses were all sorts of shapes, sizes and angles. the expressions on each different.
tommy stopped at the steps leading up to the porch. should he ring the bell? he could turn back. the lady at the store had said: only bad people lived in bad places. but his mum said: the lady at the store had bats in her attic.
cries of scaredy cat filled his ears. his head. the empty bag felt heavy in his hands. no. he must do it. had to do it. he took the white steps up to the porch slowly. leaned forward. pressed the bell. he could hear footsteps in a corridor approaching. a sort of shuffling walk. fumbling with the door lock. the door moved open.
an old man stood before tommy. blue worn slippers. brown chords, faded. white shirt and grey cardigan. grey hair was parted to one on a head which wore thick black-rimmed spectacles.
‘ah. you came. you want sweets?’
tommy’s mouth went dry. hands moist. his mouth opened and closed like a gasping fish. words would not come out.
deep breath.
he needed a deep breath.
count to three.
‘yes. ple..please.’
the man opened the door wide. tommy could see a glass bowl on a table in the hallway. it was full of sweets of every colour. blues, browns, reds, yellows. shimmering foil paper delights. but that wasn’t what caught his eye. there, in the middle, was an enormous mctavish whizzbanger. bigger than he had ever seen.
‘if you want it, just come in and take it. i have plenty more.’ the old man shuffled back from the door. clearing the way.
tommy knew he should not enter stranger’s houses. he had been told at school. told by his mother. 
scaredy cat! scaredy cat! tommy is a scardy cat!
if he had that whizzbanger the other kids would no longer call him names. they wouldn’t laugh. they would gather round amazed. jealous. he would be talked of as special. a hero. they would follow him. they would follow to the land of sweets.
tommy stepped in. past the old man. up to the bowl. there was only one thing he wanted. he put his hand in the bowl. grasped the whizzbanger. the door clicked behind him. 

mr higgins scooped the last of the insides out into the bucket. what a great expression he caught. it would certainly catch someone’s eye. he climbed up onto the wooden kitchen chair. reached high to the top of the welsh dresser to fetch down the orange paint. it had been another fruitful year. the display on the wall by the porch would look even better next year. sat in a row. images lit up for all to see. arresting. just the right note for the season. surely, he would win spookiest house again.