The welby household at Halloween is a cornucopia of fun for welbyfamily, but especially for me. The traditions are strong, and passed down through generations, much more so than say, Christmas or Thanksgiving. This year, things went Horribly Wrong.
My grandfather is the reigning champion worldwide for sending kids scurrying in terror. My father taught me many tricks, which in time, I shall pass on to my son.
When we move into a new neighborhood, as we did this year, we feel that we must set the stage properly and terrify kids enough that they will wonder if it’s safe to return next year. We change up the scare tactics from year to year so that the kids won’t know what’s coming. Our record is excellent, ranging from kids who run into walls in thier panic to escape to one who simply sat down and peed his pants.
welbywife decorated beautifully, that is to say horribly, with cobwebs and blacklights, spiders and skeletons, and nasty bits of assorted body parts flung around the carport. The scarecrow that is supposed to be cute and cuddly hung from the basketball net by it’s neck, and we felt satisfied desecrating its cuteness.
welbwife was in simple makeup with fake vampire teeth, just spooky enough to put the kids on edge, but not enough to scare them outright. She is the diversion, the center of attention, masterful in her deception. I wore a demon mask, dark cloak, and was covered up with bags of leaves so that I could leap at the children from behind after welbywife provided them candy.
We verified our system. “You’re all here, Happy Halloween!” means terrify to my heart’s content, all of the kids appear old enough to take it. “Oooh how scary!” means scare them, but not too much, there’s a kid or two who might not take it well. “Oh what a pretty costume!” means stay where you are and don’t move.
The stage was set, the props prepared, and I settled into my bags of leaves to wait. The first few groups come, and we’re on our game perfectly. I’m seeing the terrified faces of the children as they scramble to escape my horrible presence. Some of them are obviously already on a sugar high, twitchy and shaking. I can observe them as they come in, but not as they get thier candy. Screams fly up and down the street like bats. welbywife is luring them in for the kill, and I’m killing like the manager of a slaughterhouse. We’re becoming ledgend throughout the neighborhood and things are going perfectly.
Enter the next batch of addicts, a group of 5 or 6, 10-12 years old. These kids we know, they live around the corner, some play with the dogs, and all of them know us as an easy target for the various things they sell. welbywife greets them by name, letting me know that these kids are targets beyond measure, targets of worth and substance. In short, make them check thier shorts by the time they leave.
The signal comes and I pounce out of my camoflauge, terror in a cheap mask. I leap next to the group, crouched and screaming. The youngest two shoot in opposite directions, one actually leaping over the table with our pumpkin on it, the other around the corner and out of sight.
I’m in heaven. I’m screaming like a madman, the remaining kids appear too scared to move, and then little Melissa, 11 years old, whirls and delivers a snap kick to my nuts that would have Bruce Lee asking for lessons. Her sister, nice little Jennifer who wouldn’t hurt a fly, beans me on the head with her plastic bucket, half full of candy. In the rush to leave, my hand gets stepped on and my head is kicked once. I’ve just gotten my ass kicked by two little girls and their entourage of sugar feinds.
welbywife was useless. She was laughing too hard. In fact, she was still laughing this morning as I limped out of bed. As I limped to the car this morning I saw Jennifer and Melissa’s dad walking to the bus stop. We greet each other, and the bastard, who appears to have a sugar high of his own this morning, can’t resist.
“The girls said your house was really scary,” he says. “They’re sorry by the way. All they can talk about is next year. They can’t wait!”
No Christmas cars for them. Ever.
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