A hooded figure dragged itself through the trees as dusk fell. An empty house sat beyond them, unlit, with a single pumpkin on the cobwebbed porch. The inhabitants knew nothing of the specter — only its former self. But the specter would be long gone when they returned.

The black cloak rustled its laborious descent toward the house and collapsed on the porch’s threshold. All was silent. Then, from beneath the lifeless pile of fabric, something emerged. A squirrel face. Disguise now abandoned, the squirrel ate the pumpkin. A trick, then a treat.