Happy Halloween

 

Mag's Midnight Query

On the fringe of a fog-shrouded suburb, where jack-o'-lanterns grinned like riddles etched in rind, Mag perched on her porch swing, legs tucked under a threadbare witch's cape she'd sewn from thrift-store curtains. It was Halloween, 2025, and the neighbourhood thrummed with costumed chaos—tiny vampires demanding tribute, ghosts trailing bedsheets like existential veils. But Mag? She wasn't handing out Snickers or spectral sweets. No, she was Mag, the neighborhood's perpetual "why-girl," the one who'd once halted a block party to interrogate the physics of piñatas: How does candy defy gravity until betrayal? Tonight, her pumpkin wasn't carved with triangles for eyes. It bore a single, wobbly question mark, lit from within by a tealight that flickered like doubt. A sign dangled beside it: Trick or Query? In Sharpie scrawl, she'd added footnotes: Why orange? How does fear ferment into fun? When did masks become alibis?As the doorbell chimed—ding-dong like a hesitant oracle—a cluster of pint-sized superheroes clustered on her stoop, capes askew, expecting the usual haul. Mag leaned forward, her silver-streaked bob catching the porch light like a comet's tail. "Happy... what, exactly?" she mused aloud, tilting her head as if the words were a puzzle box. The kids blinked, buckets poised. One tiny Batman furrowed his brow beneath the mask. "Uh, Halloween? Candy?"Mag's eyes sparkled, not with mischief, but with that insatiable spark—the one that unravelled yarn balls of certainty. "Ah, but Halloween. Why this night, of all three hundred sixty-five? Is it the veil thinning, like onion skin between worlds, or just capitalism's clever cloak for excess?" She rummaged in her cauldron (a repurposed stockpot), emerging not with Milky Ways, but with handwritten cards. Each bore a riddle: When does a shadow whisper your secrets? (Answer: At dusk, if you're brave enough to listen.)The kids exchanged glances—equal parts bewilderment and glee. A fairy with glitter-dusted wings snatched one, giggling. "This is better than Tootsie Rolls!" Emboldened, Mag pressed on, her voice a velvet hook. "And how do we say 'happy' to a holiday built on haunts? Does joy chase the goosebumps, or do they dance together?" She doled out the cards like contraband wisdom, watching their faces light up as questions bloomed. No sugar crash here—just the sweet sting of curiosity. As the troupe scampered off into the mist, trailing laughter like comet dust, Mag settled back, swing creaking in rhythm with the settling fog. Her own bowl, untouched, held a single treat: a mirror shard wrapped in twine. For seeing the ghost in the mirror, she'd noted on the tag. Why you? Because when's the best time to question yourself? Now. From the shadows of her gingko tree, a figure emerged—her neighbour, old Mr. Hale, in a fedora that screamed "detective from a bygone noir." He'd skipped the block's bash to lurk, as always, nursing a thermos of spiked cider. "Mag, you gonna scare 'em straight into philosophy majors?"She smirked, handing him a card: How does one wish 'happy' to the unquiet dead? "By asking, Hale. Always by asking." He chuckled, pocketing it. "Well, then—happy unravelling."As midnight tolled, distant and mocking, Mag whispered to the empty street: "Happy... inquiry?" The question mark pumpkin winked in agreement. In a world of pat answers, her Halloween wasn't a shout. It was a summons. And tonight, the night had answered.