They wait until sunset before they venture out, dressed up in their white sheets. They call themselves the Klan, but we know them for what they are; a bunch of tearaways.
It all starts with a bonfire in the town square, announcing their presence to the neighbourhood.
We turn off all the lights and hide, peeking out of our shutters as they get ever closer, watching their torch-lit procession.
It doesn’t take them long to reach our house.
“Shhh,” whispers my wife, hugging our children. “Don’t answer it, Luther!”
I can’t ignore them. They know we’re here.
“Trick or treat!”