Night walk

One day, in late autumn, relatives from a neighboring village invited us, with my younger brother Patrick, to their Halloween.

Having drunk well, having had a great bite and gathered sweet trophies from all the neighbors, as well as plenty of pretty girls, scared, Pat and I moved back.

It was well past midnight, the full moon was shining with a bright, deathly white light because of which shaggy branches hanging low over the road seemed to be cast from silver, sometimes darkened from time to time.

The air was saturated with moisture, the day before there was heavy rain, but now the sky has cleared and stretched over us like a bottomless well entangled in the bright spiderweb of stars. It seemed that everything was falling asleep, it was not even heard the usual singing of crickets, these tireless violinists of the night.

The road, slightly rising, led us to a ravine and swirled along it, pressed against a precipice by a dilapidated fence of an old abandoned village cemetery.

Laughing loudly and making fun of each other, we tried to ward off the sticky fear slowly creeping under the shirt.

“You know, they say, the blacksmith Jack is buried in this cemetery. The one who was the first to cut an ugly face in a pumpkin and put a candle in it, I said.

Bullshit said, Pat. There was no blacksmith, and this tale was invented by a cunning peasant for his pumpkins to sell better. Vaughn, they have nowhere to go until autumn.

And yet, I did not let up, they say, once scared Jack of the devil with his pumpkin. He was so offended that he cursed him: forever, on the night of November 1, walk the earth with this stupid pumpkin and frighten people.

Yes, there was no Jack, I tell you, I have nothing here ...

But he did not have time to finish, because of a corner, a stranger of medium height seemed to be carrying an enormous pumpkin with both hands, and a bright orange light poured out of a terrible grin on the road.

Great guys, that scared? Hey redhead, I look at your heart pounding so that soon a hole in the belly will punch and jump out onto the road, a stranger Patu threw a loud chuckle.

I opened my mouth to answer, but then my eyes fell on a large puddle that separated us from a stranger. It reflected the full moon and the fire pumpkin, which was held in the hands of a stranger. But she seemed to be hanging in the void: her master was not reflected in the mirror of the water.

Trezveya, I pushed Patrick's elbow but did not have time.

“Shut your mouth with your damn pumpkin,” Pat squeezed out of himself.

But you guessed it. And about the devil, and about the pumpkin, the guy threw up merrily. He made some kind of elusive movement, and his head disappeared as if it was not her at all. And in her place, a huge pumpkin began to glow evil, suddenly turning white. Burning light splashed from her eyes, and her orange teeth bared a terrible smile.

And a very loud, deaf sound erupted over the ravine, emanating, if not from a pumpkin, then certainly not from a human throat, a wild laugh.

So fast in my life, I never ran. We jumped into a ravine and ran, sliding along the slope and breaking bushes. How our necks remained intact is still a mystery to me. Apparently, our death was not included in the plans of the creature that we met on the trail.

Having run at least a mile, we together stumbled over some snag and rolled head over heels on the wet carpet of fallen leaves.

What was it, breathing heavily asked Pat.

“Didn't you see it yourself?” I croaked.

Strongly taking it to the right, we quickly trotted over to where the path was supposed to be. Soon, the gap between the trees flashed and drunken voices were heard.

We went out on the path and saw a merry couple: the big-hearted Bryan, behind whom I walked, writing out a drunken pretzel, a frail Conor.

It's amazing how glad I was to see those drunken faces.

Guys, I asked in a broken voice, have you seen anything unusual now? Merry small, with a fiery pumpkin instead of Baska?

Yeah, well, he still had goat hooves and a black tail.

Yes, I seriously, but did not hear the cry?

“Hey, Conor, I call this to drink the hell out, with a drunken thoughtfulness, Brian barked, pointing at us.”

Knowing his talkative language, and not wanting to be considered an idiot, I retreated:

Well, Brown, you can't catch anything. I would not be surprised if at the Last Judgment you blast out to the Almighty: "Hey papa, you have to spoil your foolishness, let's go skip a glass!"

He laughed, and we, often looking around, followed them.

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"Trick or treat”

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