A pirate’s lesson in tricks and treats and a witch’s revenge
Harrell
My best friend, Tommy Burnette and I had just turned ten that June. And here it was the last of October, which meant that this was the first year that we were allowed to trick or treat without being hauled around by one of our moms. Which also meant that we might get a chance to do more than ring doorbells and receive a handful of jellybeans.
We had been collecting and making the items with which we were going to create the best costumes our neighborhood had ever seen. We were going to be blood thirsty pirates. We were going to look so good that we figured folks would just dump bowls of candy into our sacks.
We had drawn a treasure map of our neighborhood, all four blocks of it. Every single house was marked with an X. We planned to find treasure at every stop. Well, that is every house but that one.
That house was the last stop on our planned plunder collecting expedition. It was a rather unkempt one-story abode that at one time, had been the only house on the plot of farmland that had become our subdivision. It was inhabited by an old lady named Miss Catron whom Tommy and I had estimated to be somewhere around 120 years old.
Our mothers would never stop there when they had hauled us around in previous years because they, “Didn’t want to disturb the poor old thing.”
I’m not real sure that I had ever really even seen Miss Catron. Occasionally there would be some strange car in her drive, but other than that, she kept to herself.
The simple fact that she was 120 years old was enough to convince us two boys that she must be a witch.
Oh yeah, there was one special article we two cutthroats had among our gear: a brand-new bar of Ivory soap, which was to be used for our pirates’ revenge in case some lubber decided not to pay their extortion.
To make things even more perfect, there was a full moon to light our way. We shoved off at 8:30, starting our voyage in search of booty. Everyone we encountered commented on what bloody cut throats we looked to be.
By 9:45 we had covered our treasure map, but we still had one stop to make.
At the far end of the neighborhood there it stood, the old witch’s run-down shack. And just as we had expected, there was not even the faint glow of a candle visible. We knew the old crone was home. She was always home.
We stood at that witch’s gate for a good ten minutes. I said, “Aw, she ain’t worth our time. Let’s go count our loot.” To which Tommy said, “You getting cold feet?” To which I said, “Um. No. You?”
“I’ll go if you will.”
“I’ll go if you will.”
“So, I guess we’re going.”
“I guess.”
We stood there another two minutes.
“So, I guess we’re really going.”
“I guess.”
“Ok.”
Tommy pushed on the gate and we both jumped three feet when it screeched just like the witch in “The Wizard of Oz.” I squeaked like a mouse and Tommy grabbed me by the hand. So, like a couple of little sissies, we crept hand in hand up her walk and up the two steps leading to her porch.
With the moonlight, I could just make out the button of an ancient doorbell there beside the door. Tommy reached out a trembling finger and touched the button. There was a buzzzz that sounded as loud as a hockey arena penalty alarm.
Nearly jumping out of our skins, we both half turned ready to flee. After what seemed a half an hour (but was probably more like thirty seconds), no response. We looked at each other still wide-eyed.
Another thirty seconds and I pushed the buzzer. Nothing. Tommy laid on that buzzer for a good ten seconds. Nada.
Two brave pirate captains yo-ho-ed and slapped each other on the back. She was too scared to even answer the door. I cupped my hands and peered in the porch window. It was as dark as a dungeon in there.
When I turned around Tommy pointed at my nose and laughed. “The end of your nose is black as coal!”
I wiped a finger across the glass. The window was as dirty as an ash bin. Time for “Pirates Revenge.”
I reached for the bar of soap and wrote “Wash Me” and drew a skull and cross bones on the pane. Tommy laughed. He took the bar of soap and broke it in two. We each took a half and, going in either direction, we did the same to every window around the house.
We stood in the road laughing until our beards were soaked. We went to my house and savored our loot until we fell asleep sometime after midnight.
I felt a tremor. Was it an earthquake? I went back to sleep. Then there it was again.
I opened my peepers and looked into the laughing eyes of my father. He grinned and said, “Well, Captain Blood, it’s time for you and Jolly Roger to snap to.”
“Huh?”
“Your voyage isn’t quite over. I got a phone call just now.”
“Uh oh.”
He shook Tommy awake and had us dress in our costumes. Then he led our half-asleep carcasses to his car and drove us to Miss Catron’s house.
There on her front porch were two buckets of cold water and a pile of old rags. Dad said he’d be back in a couple of hours.
I dipped a rag into that icy water and began to rub that soaped pane. As the soap began to take effect, I suddenly screamed out.
That old crone watched us through those filthy windows as we two pirates shined every window in her house. And she cackled the whole time.
Michael Reno Harrell is an award-winning songwriter, a published author, a nationally known storyteller, and a visual artist. He writes a monthly column for The Paper. See more of his work and performance schedule at his website, michaelreno.com, or his YouTube channel, @MichaelRenoharrell.
