Halloween Scary

My girls have had some great Halloweens--like the one where Birdie, costumed as princess, daintily accepted candy from the neighbor who lived down the street, then inquired if she was, in fact, "the mean old lady everyone talked about." Another year,  Daisy scored a pair of ruby slippers--the gateway drug to Uggs, Sperrys and Jimmy Choos. Some years, my girls faced down chain-sawing wielding vampires, jumping spiders and misplaced treat bags. They endured threats of "not getting to go," but always got to. And they rebuffed warnings of "you'll need to wear a coat over that." With some decent Halloweens under their belt, they can claim to know "scary," but I know "scary." I was a not-quite-teenager, not quite bored with Halloween, but much too old to do more than yawn at creepy monsters. I don't recall my costume or whom I trick-or-treated with. I remember hearing the screams of packs of kids running from house to house. Darkness cloaked everything. I caught a vague amoeba-like shadow as one group streamed past me. Then, for a moment, I stood alone on the leaf-strewn, wet asphalt one street over from my familiar Britt Street. There, in the night, I took one step forward and then another. A sudden massiveness lurched toward me. Immobilized by fright, I waited. Labored breathing and dripping drew near. Warm stench enveloped me. Then, the presence passed. My Halloween continued, but with a bit more skittishness in my step. In the cold light of November, my scare settled. One street over from Britt, a mild-mannered St. Bernard with ropy trails of saliva roamed on slow plodding feet. He had a name. But whatever it was, he'll always be my Cujo.