As a cool autumn breeze sweeps the dried, crispy leaves across my path, that day becomes so vivid again. It was long ago. We were about twelve then. Bumpy and I were inseparable. Friends to the end, we'd always say. Bumpy's real name was Kevin, a big, ruddy faced Irish kid, who'd earned the nickname with his nervous habit of repeatedly bumping into you as he stood and talked. Nevertheless, he was a good and loyal friend. Little did we know, that friendship would soon be tried and tested under the most unexpected of circumstances.
The Wellington house was quite a fixture in our neighborhood. Located at the end of our quiet cul-de-sac, it stood in all its menacing, Gothic glory. It was huge and frightening, and the stories about it had haunted and entertained neighbors for many years. Folklore had it that the house's current sole occupant, Althea Wellington, had murdered six members of her family there, many years ago, long before any of our current neighbors had settled into this area. She had made the preposterous claim that a demon had manifested itself to her in the house and commanded her to carry out the gruesome crimes. Anyway, they say that she was found insane and spent some fifty years in an institution and was released, only to return to the house to live the life of a recluse, a morbid curiosity, an outcast of sorts. Needless to say, we would always be sure to steer clear of the place at all costs.
After years of dares, Bumpy and I were determined to do it this time. Halloween was coming up and we'd been through this a thousand times before. We'd hatched the plan in complete privacy. Heck, if our parents were to find out that we were planning to Trick or Treat at the Wellington house, they'd have our heads, for sure. I still don't know why we did it. Maybe we just wanted to do what no other kids had the nerve to do for so many years. Maybe we just wanted to impress some of the girls at school. Maybe we were just a couple of stupid kids, looking to pull off some daring, childish prank. Whatever the case, Halloween came and there we were, pacing around, trying to muster up the courage to carry it out.
While scores of fellow Trick or Treaters watched in awe from a safe distance, Bumpy and I took our final deep breaths and began to walk up the eerie cobblestone walkway towards the nightmarish mansion. My legs were trembling as I took each reluctant step, a million excuses to turn back going through my mind. Bumpy was silent, the reddish color disappearing from his face as he walked. My heart began to beat much faster as I tried to catch the deep breaths through my cheap, paper mask. Before we knew it, we were there on the rickety, wooden front porch. There before us was the majestic wooden door, a huge brass knocker, like something out of the movies, dangling from it. This was it, I thought. There's no turning back now. Without uttering a word, Bumpy and I looked at each other, and I began to knock.
After three hard wraps and no answer, I must admit that I was relieved. We had gone further than any other kid in the neighborhood, but miraculously we were spared...








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