October 31st, 1997. I remember that day like it was yesterday, no matter how much I want to forget.

We were out trick-or-treating, my brother Kevin and his friends accompanying me, mom’s orders, and let's just say they weren’t too keen about it. I remember hearing constant grumbling and moaning, but I didn’t mind, at least at the time. Then, we arrived at the house on Beecher Street. Mom always said never to go down Beecher Street, but Kevin was at that age, if you know what I mean, teenagers and all that. I heard him and his friends snickering, and next thing I knew, I was pushed in front of the door, being told to knock. My palms were sweating, and my breathing was heavy, but the cheers and hollers took their toll, and so I knocked open the door. Kevin and his friends pushed me inside, telling me to be a leader.

The house was old and dilapidated. Covered in cobwebs and dust, as if it hadn’t been lived in for hundreds of years. I then heard a loud slam. I looked back and ran to the front door, trying to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. I then heard Kevin and his friends laughing hysterically. I begged to be let out, but they just kept laughing. Suddenly, there was silence. I screamed at Kevin to stop joking around and let me out. But there was silence. I couldn’t look outside, as the windows were boarded up on the outside. So I just waited, hoping that this joke would end. A few minutes later, there was a flash of light, followed by a thunderous boom. I screamed and ran to what looked like a nearby closet, where I hid, shutting the door hard. I stayed in that closet all night, praying that no one would open the door. And strangely, no one did.

Eventually, the crisp morning light creeped below the closet. I slowly opened the door. The house was strangely clean, as in sparkly clean. As if it were just newly built. The door was wide open, and I slowly walked out. It was sunny out; without a cloud in the sky. The birds were chirping, and the fall leaves were rustling. It almost seemed… quaint. Then I looked down, and I saw a costume lying on the ground. It was Kevin’s.

As soon as I saw his costume, I ran. I just ran. I ran back home, panicking and crying, not even taking a peek back. Eventually, I reached home, exhausted. I rang the doorbell, and mom opened it, giant bags beneath her eyes. She seemed to have been up all night. Anyway, I told her everything that happened, and she immediately picked up the house phone.

For the next few days, the policemen visited frequently. I wasn’t sure what they were talking about, though every talk ended with my mom crying. The house on Beecher Street was eventually condemned for demolition. However, on the day the demolition crew came, the entire hill disappeared. As for my brother, I never saw him again; and what happened to him, we never found out. Things for me and my mom were, well, stressful, but we made it through. Mom made enough to retire down in Florida and I eventually graduated college, and got a house and job near her.

I don’t take any of this for granted. I’m still not sure why I am still alive to tell this tale. And every so often, as I sleep at night, I hear knocking from the window. Quiet, but clear. And the knocking lasts all night.