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Nutshell Kingdom: My Scariest Halloween
2003
When Tim and I lived together with a fellow named Ned in a little rural suburb of Chapel Hill, there was a Halloween that happened. We were sitting there, watching the Simpsons when a horde of giggling costumed children began to creep up the driveway. We had no candy. We had nothing to give. We were bad neighbors. Quickly, we turned off the TV, turned off the lights and ran into the hallway to hide from the little monsters. They rang the bell. They rang it again. We could hear them muttering amongst themselves. They were the Ringwraiths and we were innocent hobbits. They began to pound on the door. We huddled in the hallway, knowing, each of us silent, that our front door was unlocked. They could come in at any time and do horrible kiddie things to us. We were outnumbered. They were younger and had more energy than us. We may have been drunk. To our mortified surprise, the children began yelling through the door (the unmanned gateway to candy and excess sugar beyond imagining). They were yelling awful things, "Open the door," "We know you're home," things of that nature. Maybe even a few childish profanities. One of us panicked and whispered: "We could just give them some sugar. We have sugar, don't we?" Eventually, the kids just glided off into the night and the neighborhood. Most of the evening we were too afraid to turn the lights on for fear of discovery and revenge. I believe I finally left and went my girlfriend's house, too scared to stay home.
And that was my scariest Halloween.
