Death watched from the shadows, amused.
He was dressed in a cheap, thin fabric loosely stitched into a robe. His face felt fixed beneath the hood that covered it. His mouth was set rigid, halfway between a grin and a scream.
What amused him most was the rubber dagger he held in his right hand, badly painted bright red at the tip. What had happened to the scythe?
Of course, death had not dressed himself. His clothing, his very being, was simply a manifestation of the collective subconsciousness of those around him.
He watched them now, running between houses and giggling with delight. They carried with them the fruits of their labour: candies and cakes.
"Trick or treat," he heard one girl cry excitedly as the door she stood before opened, bathing her in light. He didn't need a close look at her (despite the witch costume and make-up) to know it was little Abigail Greenwood. She'd been born eight short years ago and was destined to live another eighty. Not all of them happily.
He turned to see a small living effigy of himself, complete with floppy dagger, heading up the steps to the Milton house.
This was young Tommy Franks, born the same year as little Abigail and destined to never be old enough to see the movie his costume had come from.
But death wasn't here for him. Not tonight.
Tommy was gamely climbing the steps to the porch of Mr Richard Milton. On the steps the carved eyes of several pumpkins shone with candlelight.
All children know that this is an invitation. Death had been watching them tonight -knocking on the doors of those with jack-o-lanterns and walking by those houses cloaked in darkness.
All the local kids had avoided the Milton house, despite the apparent invite. Years of bitter experience told them better.
Tommy was new in town. Too new to have made friends. His mother stood by at the bottom of the steps. She'd brought him out in the hope that they'd start to meet people. To mingle.
A few costumed kids were now stopping and taking an interest. A little vampire (John Fairleigh, aged 57, massive coronary) pointed at Tommy and laughed. Kids could be so cruel thought Death.
Soon a small crowd gathered to see what would happen. Death stood amongst them, unnoticed.
Tommy was at the door. Completely misreading the anticipation of the gathering crowd, he knocked on it with relish.
It opened almost immediately, as if old man Milton had been waiting.
He scowled at the boy from beneath his wire rimmed glasses - his eyes rheumy and devoid of compassion.
"Well?" He demanded of the boy. "Say it!"
"Erm..." began Tommy, hesitantly, "trick or..."
"TRICK!" Shouted Milton gleefully. He reached behind the door and retrieved a bucket of icy water. With a strength that didn't match his advancing years he hauled it up and tipped it over the unsuspecting boy.
"I don't like begging!" He shouted down the stoop at the assembled crowd.
“I tell you that EVERY year!”
He slammed the door and was gone.
The crowd laughed at young Tommy who dripped and sobbed uncontrollably. His mother would never make the link, but this one incident alone would be the cause of all Tommy's later troubles, and ultimately, his very early demise.
Death would regret taking him when the time came, although everybody's days were numbered. That is how it was written. Everyone had a time to go.
Thinking of this brought Death back to the job at hand.
He climbed Milton's steps still unnoticed; as young Tommy rushed down them into the comforting arms of his waiting mother. At least Tommy would be okay tonight. The kids' jibes wouldn't start until they were back in school.
Tonight, his mother would take him home, wrap him in a big warm towel and put extra marshmallows in his hot chocolate. Tonight, Tommy would be loved, and that was good.
Yes, some collections were regrettable Death reflected, but after what he'd witnessed tonight, he might just enjoy this one.
He'd reached the top of Milton's steps.
He didn't bother to knock.
