His cape, a torn white sheet, ballooned behind as he pedaled his bike. The pillow-case filled with treats spilled from his basket. And he sang to the silence of the deserted street.
Empty houses greeted him. No lights. No children’s laughter or pumpkins or smiles. He didn’t seem to mind.
Then with the sound of a creaking door, an old woman appeared, frail, with pale sunken cheeks, white hair, and wailing her pain. She pointed a long bony finger and shrieked at the boy.
Then silence reigned, the pillow-case bulging wider on the basket’s wire rim, the boy still singing.