The McGillicuddy Horror

“There was only one rule; don’t open the door.”

“Why?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.” I was eight. Too old to be kept in the dark. Even though my big sister Julie treated me like a child.

She stared at me. Then relented.

“Because if you open the door you die”

“Why?”

“Because Mrs McGillicuddy likes to roast children - and eat them.”

I considered that. Julie was ten. And she knew lots of things. But I don’t scare easy. And I had to know.

The next day after dinner, I snuck out to find evidence of the old lady’s crimes. I stood at the bottom of the steep hill leading to the turreted McGillicuddy mansion. Dim light slipped through cracks in heavy curtains. I trod on cat's paws through the shadowed grass beside the driveway, creeping as silently as I knew how.

The trees’ shadows appeared and disappeared as clouds scudded past the full moon.

The naked branches waved lazily in the night breeze. The fallen leaves swirled and stilled as the undecided air picked them up and dropped them.

The aging house loomed above me. Alternately lit and shadowed by the moon.

I ran hunched over to the front steps. I stood frozen as the wind moaned a warning. I crept up the stairs. And snuck across the wide porch. I touched the front door. It was ajar. And through the crack I saw darkness. I stayed still contemplating my next move.

Suddenly the porch light blazed on. The door swung open. A woman in a black dress stared down at me. She thrust a long, thin, dripping knife at me. I stumbled back in panic. She spoke the last words I heard before the darkness descended.

“Have you come to help me carve pumpkins, dear?”