Trick or Treat

This year, my parents finally let me go trick-or-treating on my own. They said I was too old for them to tag along anymore, and honestly, I didn’t want them to. The night started out perfect: just me, my wizard costume, and my candy bag. Around the sixth house, I noticed him—a kid about my age, trailing behind me. He wore a mask that looked leathery, like dried, sun-bleached skin. It clung loosely to his face, sagging around his cheeks, and the eye holes were dark and hollow, as if the mask itself had swallowed up whatever lay beneath. I figured he might be shy, maybe nervous being out alone, so at the next house, I turned and said, "Hey, wanna trick-or-treat together?" He nodded but didn’t speak. When I saw he didn’t have a candy bag, I offered to share mine. He still said nothing, just smiled faintly beneath that rotting mask. His wide, glassy eyes were barely visible through the deep, shadowed sockets, but I could feel them—locked on mine, unblinking and too still. As we knocked on the door of the last house on the block, I finally asked him, "Do you live around here?" But before he could respond, the old woman at the door spoke first. "Trick or treat!" I blurted out, but she ignored my greeting. She looked around, her eyes scanning the empty street, then down at me with concern. "Sweetie," she asked softly, "why are you out here all alone?"