Halloween night, around 9 o’clock. Perhaps even later. The wind whips, the branches wave. The candy bowl is empty. The doorbell has not rung for 90 minutes.

And then… DING DONG!

What infernal hell hath befallen us? Your spine stiffens and your blood runs cold. But you know the truth. The real Witching Hour has arrived. There’s a persistent second doorbell, followed by irritated mumbling through the walls — Dude, I saw a guy in the window, they’re home. … You open the door.

Teenagers. No costumes. No “Trick or treat!” They can barely deign to raise their leaden pillowcases. Something here — the bored stares, the nascent mustaches, their inability to read the room — feels off. You mutter that it’s late and have no more candy and they say nothing and spin on their heels and you close th

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