The Gutsy Goblin

The night was pitch-dark, a misty, moonless Halloween night, “blacker than a hundred midnights, down in a cypress swamp,” as poets would describe it. All of us are crazier at night than in daytime … triply so on Halloween, and so was Wayne. His plan was not only crazy — it was diabolical. Muscular, barrel-chested and an imposing six-foot, five-inches tall, he was an outstanding athlete at the college where I taught. He was also a bully. Dressed in a white sheet with a bloody knife wound over his heart, a hood with slanted eyeholes and fanged, frowning mouth, calling himself Casper the Unfriendly Ghost, he hid in a tree beside a sidewalk, dropped in front of trick-or-treaters, raised his arms, and roared “Y-A-A-A-R-GH,” causing terrified tots to drop their bags of booty and flee.