The Seventh Halloween

Lacey set the empty dog-food bag outside the back door for recycling and resumed work on her Halloween costume. She was playing Ms. Frizzle this year—at the suggestion of her fourth-grade students, who adored the eccentric science teacher ever ready for the unexpected. 

Her costume included plastic reptiles sewn onto an old dress, two green and purple lizards she hot glued onto a pair of old tap shoes, a hat sporting a coiled snake, and a live iguana she would borrow from a neighbor. She expected the iguana, who tolerated walking on a leash, to help her win the faculty costume contest at the school party. 

Halloween was not her favorite holiday. Seven years ago, her only sister, Lydia, had choked to death on a piece of candy while Lacey was babysitting for her. Twelve-year-old Lydia had rushed in after trick or treating, her Halloween bag full of sweets, and had spread them all out and arranged them by size and color. It was the lime-green sour apple jawbreaker that caused her to choke. Lacey, then 17, had been on the phone with her boyfriend, Chris. Loathe to hang up, she waited a few minutes before taking Lydia’s choking seriously. But it was too late. Ever since then, something had always gone awry with Halloween for her.  

This year the moon was full, the weather crisp, and Lacey had just celebrated her second wedding anniversary with Chris. Her costume was coming together, and she had a hopeful feeling that there had been a reprieve from the mysterious things that had occurred around Halloween for the past seven years.  

Just after midnight, she called the dogs and took them outside for one last walk. She might as well take out the trash and assemble the recycling, she thought. She picked up the empty dog-food bag, but it was heavy now, as if she hadn’t poured all the dry food out. Reaching into the bag, she touched something furry—some kind of animal body—and screamed.  

Chris rushed to the back door. 

A scuffling noise and a small but high-pitched cry emitted from the bag.  

“Did you hear that? There’s a rat—or something—in the bag!” she shouted, running into the house. 

Chris dashed into the garage, grabbed his old baseball bat, and slammed it against the bag. Then he peered inside. 

“It was a possum,” he told her as he came back inside.

“A possum. How sad! I thought it was a rat because of the turds we found.” 

“It may not be dead—it may be playing possum, but I think I got him.” Chris’s face showed regret—they both tried to honor the wildlife around their house in the woods. 

         “You’d better check.”

“I will.”

“I guess we’ll need to bury it.”

Just then, the phone rang‑‑their old land line. Lacey ran into the kitchen and picked it up, momentarily forgetting calls on that phone were usually spam. “Hello?” 

A garbled voice uttered something, but the dogs were barking outside, and she was highly distracted. 

         “Who is this?” 

         “Possum.”

         Lacey’s mind did cartwheels.  Was someone playing a trick on them? Was there a connection to the possum that had just been killed?

         “Possum?” It was her father’s pet name for Lydia.

         “Possum.”

         “Are you—Lydia? But how?”

         “Every year I’ve tried to connect, but you didn’t get my message. I thought I’d be more direct this year.” The voice was gravelly, strained, but older. Lydia would have been 19 now, Lacey thought. 

         “What—do you want?”

         “You let me die.”

         “I—” a cold wave of terror went from the base of Lacey’s spine and back down. 

         “You had the best of everything—good grades, a boyfriend . . .”

         “You were only twelve.”

         “You got to go to Europe and to camp . . .”

         “I’m sure you would have had those opportunities—”

         “You were the pretty one, the one that Mom and Dad loved best.”

         “It’s not true—they loved us both the same—they were just busier when you came along.”

         “You always got your way . . . ”

         How could Lacey argue with a ghost—a child person whose life was truncated at a vulnerable time? 

         “You were on the phone when I choked.”

         Lacey wailed. “If only you knew how sorry I am. Every day of my life.”

         “You and your boyfriend.”

         “Chris loved you, like I did.”

         “No, he was only interested in you.”

         “What do you want?” Through the window Lacey could see Chris dragging the bag with the possum in it across the deck. He put the whole thing into a green garbage bag. She knew then it was dead. The dogs were barking at something that appeared to be up in a tree. 

         “You killed me.” 

         “It was the candy. You choked . . .”

         “It was your selfishness.” The voice faded to a low, scratching sound. 

         “Possum. . . .”  Just then, Chris hit his head on a low branch and fell. “I’ve gotta go.” 

         “You love him more.”  

Lacey hung up and raced outside. Chris lay on his side, his face bleeding. “What happened?”

         “There was a possum in the tree who spat at me,” he said. “I got too close, and then hit my head.” 

         “Let’s bury the other possum.”

         “Maybe it was his mate.”

         “And maybe it was someone else.”

         “Huh?”

         “I’ll explain later.”

         She helped him up, wiping the blood off his face with a paper towel. Then they picked a spot and dug a hole in the backyard and placed the garbage bag in it. They took turns shoveling the dirt until the hole was filled. Under the light of the full moon Lacey tossed a chrysanthemum blossom onto the dark earth that covered the grave. 

         “I didn’t know you cared for possums,” mumbled Chris. 

         “I didn’t either, until tonight,” she said, trying to get her mind off the present by thinking that next year her costume would involve some sort of marsupial motif rather than reptilian and wondering how she was going to explain the phone call to Chris.   

         “Happy Halloween, Sweetheart.” He put his arm around her and called the dogs, who were still barking at the possum in the tree.