Uncle Rick’s Chrysler Imperial had fins like a rocket ship and a push-button transmission. My brother Joe and I were racing down Twin House Road south of Cottonwood, Idaho, on a dark, rainy Halloween night in 1969. I was Superman. Joe, a pirate. We were on our way to our Uncle Willie’s, Ted’s, and Johnny’s to trick-or-treat.

Rock chips sprayed against the wheel wells, and the headlights lit up the wet gravel as the Chrysler raced into the darkness. Uncle Rick steered with one hand and flicked the ash of his Lucky Strike cigarette out the wing window. Weed-filled ditches bordering stubble-covered wheat fields flashed past. A giant bird swooped through the headlights. Joe and I jumped. The car slowed.

I leaned forward in the Imperial’s sofa-sized back seat. “What was that?”

Uncle Rick’s cigarette tip glowed, and he looked straight ahead. “An owl is hunting for mice.”

“Wow. It was big!”

He nodded, then pressed the accelerator. 

Yard lights from solitary farmhouses dotted the moonless night. I clutched my brown paper bag, looked through the eyeholes of my Superman mask, and stared at the road ahead. In the distance, I saw a shimmering light—a light where no light should be. It seemed alive, not like a bulb, and it was orange and flickered like starlight.  Joe pointed.

“Do you see it?”

“Yeah, I see it. What do ya think it is?”

“I’d a know.” 

It grew brighter as we drew closer. A dozen jack-o’-lanterns were piled at the corner of the road leading to my Uncle Johnny’s. Jack-o’-lanterns carved from pumpkins fresh from the pumpkin patch and destined for Thanksgiving and Christmas pies. 

But not tonight. Tonight, the flames of old candle stubs flickered in the wind. They were dancing from dim to bright through uneven eyes and gap-toothed grins. It was as if the jack-o’-lanterns were alive, and the flames were their souls. Souls that screamed welcome, friends. Welcome trick-or-treaters. Welcome to Halloween.