She had on her long black witch’s dress and some makeup that I thought made her look more beautiful than frightening. Mr. Owen was carrying a paper-wrapped bundle. He took his arm from around Mama’s shoulders when he saw me there, and Mama tucked a couple of strands of loose hair behind her ear with a trembling hand. Her eyes were red, and she came over and hugged me. She stepped back then and put her hands along the sides of my face. She looked into my eyes for a long time.
“Mama,” I gasped, holding out the lighter. “I found this. I think Daddy’s back. I was afraid that you... that he...”
Then Mr. Owen cleared his throat softly. Mama glanced at him. She smiled sadly and kissed my forehead as she took the lighter.
“Don’t worry, Sammi,” she said. “We’re fine. See? There’s nobody here but us. And look how dirty the lighter is. It must have been dropped awhile ago. Everything’s fine.”
She dropped the lighter into a pocket of her black dress. Before I had a chance to say more, she asked if I’d help set up the long picnic tables before everybody got there. Mr. Owen tucked the package into the pile of wood laid for the bonfire. We finished just as the first car pulled up, and I ran inside to change into my costume.
The com roast was as fun as always, and we stuffed ourselves with buttery, salty kernels that popped in our mouths almost before we bit into them. Mr. Owen oohed and aahed over Mama’s carrot cake until I was almost embarrassed for her. But she just smiled at him across the table. The night settled onto the mountains like a cool, damp shawl, and a yellow moon began its ascent in the east.
Then came time for the bonfire. Mr. Owen let a couple of the men light it, while he brought out a tray stacked with marshmallows. The children all ran to find thin green branches for toasting them, and those of us who were too old to show that much enthusiasm found our own sticks more quietly.
When everybody was settled on a railroad tie, one of the kids called out for a ghost story. Everyone cheered. Mama turned to Mr. Owen.
“Shel, you know some good stories,” she said. “Tell one.” We all clapped our encouragement.
He shook his head. “Not this year,” he said, looking at my mother. “I can’t think of any.” She looked away.
There was some good-natured booing and more clapping. Then Mr. Owen looked at me. I nodded and mouthed the word please, and he smiled, the same sad smile Mama had on her face earlier.
“Okay,” he said, sitting back on his haunches and looking into the fire. “This one is about monsters, monsters who look like people, wear people’s faces, but are deformed and evil underneath. Kind of a Halloween costume in reverse.”
Mr. Owen stared into the fire for a few seconds, frowning. He looked as if he’d forgotten all about the party around him.
“These monsters find families to infiltrate,” he continued. “They pick the best husbands and wives and the nicest kids because that’s where they find sustenance. They’re always hungry, never satisfied. They insert invisible fangs into the lives of the ones they should love the most and feed on that gentleness and love, grinding and devouring it until there isn’t anything left. Those families just walk around with nothing inside, empty as the sky. Then they just blow away in the first wind.”
One of the smaller children whimpered, “Mommy, that’s scary.” Mr. Owen glanced up as though surprised to find all of us still there. He stood and kicked a corn husk into the fire.
“You’re right,” he said. “That’s a lousy story. I’m sorry, but I guess I’m just too tired for a good story tonight.”
After that, the guests seemed rather subdued, and the party never quite got going again. It broke up early, most of the parents packing up their little ones and saying good night. A few of the older teens and single adults fiddled around with their marshmallow sticks for a while, but even they didn’t stay much longer.
Mama and I were the last to leave. She went inside alone to say good night to Mr. Owen, then we headed up the road in the old station wagon. Neither of us said much; it had been a long day, and we were tired. When we got home, the note was still on the kitchen table where I’d left it. I crumpled it up and tossed it into the trash can.
I never saw Daddy again, and Mama threw out the Halloween decorations the next spring when we moved away from Willowsburg. I have my own house now, and my porch light remains off every Halloween night to discourage trick-or-treaters. I keep my door locked tightly to keep out monsters. I don’t like remembering that last Halloween party at Mr. Owen’s house.
Because then I remember seeing Mama silhouetted against the bonfire, after everybody had gone home. She threw something into the flames that looked a lot like a Panama hat. And I remember that tilled patch of earth behind Mr. Owen’s house, and what the police found buried there after I gave them the lighter I dug back out of Mama’s pocket. And I hope Mr. Owen forgives me.