My Halloween night of trickery

Written by Ellen Beveridge
Tuesday, 27 October 2009 11:58

One Halloween night I got the bright idea to pay my mother a trick-or-treat visit at her home in Stratford. It happened so many years ago that I have no recollection of where I got the ghoulish mask I wore or why I came up with such an idea in the first place.

I dug up some old, unrecognizable clothes and decided to carry a walking stick to complement the appearance of an old, down-on-his-luck man.

On the way to my mother’s, I stopped at a friend’s house to test the effectiveness of my costume (where the accompanying photo was taken). She was encouragingly impressed. That was all I needed to continue on with my Halloween venture.

As a precaution, I parked my car a few houses down from my mother’s, pulled the mask over my head and walked toward the house. It was a bit later in the evening by then, and most costumed participants in the candy collecting ritual had already come and gone. But as I went up to ring the doorbell, I was relieved to see that the porch light was still on, a welcoming sign indeed.

My teenage daughter was visiting my mother at the time (one of the main reasons I had decided on my prank in the first place), and she answered the door. Trying to appear small, and, hopefully, like an old man, I bent over on my walking stick and entered the house. My heart began to beat a bit faster as the absurdity of the situation took hold.

Making myself right at home (after all, this was where I had once lived for quite a number of years) I went over and sat down in a living room chair. Unlike the other children who had come to the house, accepted candy and hurried on, I was creating an awkward situation.

Through slits in the mask I could see that my daughter was a bit perturbed — disturbed might be a better term. She extended a bowl of candy, and I accepted a piece with a hand disguised with an old glove. No “thank you,” as I didn’t dare speak because I didn’t trust my ability to successfully disguise my voice. I hoped she would not notice that this candy was the only one in my trick-or-treat bag.

When I showed no signs of leaving, my daughter turned and hurried out to the kitchen where my mother was cleaning up after dinner. I could hear them conversing in hushed voices. As for me, I was beginning to suffer. Whatever the mask was made of, I was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, and I felt like I was suffocating.

Finally, both of them came into the room to confront me. Regardless of how uneasy she may have felt, my mother still managed to muster an authoritative tone. “I want you to leave this house,” she said.

I arose from the chair, assuming a posture of hurt and rejection. Actually, I welcomed the moment when I could rip the mask off and the looks of surprise and astonishment were well worth all my efforts.

Laughing over the obvious success of my charade, I hugged my mother and said, “This is the first time you ever ordered me out of your house.”