It was Halloween night, the jovial John and the merrily morose Max were out roaming their sleep-heavy neighborhood. Tonight, tradition had demanded they visit the time-worn house at the end of their gray-grinned street, aptly named Miscrest Mansion.
With hearts pounding like drums and chocolates gripped as shields, they bravely ventured forward. The mansion was smothered in cobwebs, its windows glowing orange fixing a special Halloween glare.
Timidly, they rang the bell, greeted not by the anticipated blood-curdling shriek but rather, by the lulling lilt of “Trick or Treat” played backward. The door creaked open to reveal a kindly, petite old lady, her wrinkles more abundant than the caramel candies she passed them.
Feeling a pang of disappointment for the lack of haunting thrill, they returned home, dropping their chocolates onto the table. Imagine their surprise when they bit into one of the candies, only to have a ghostly “BOO!” tingle their taste buds instead of caramel.
The tale of Miscrest Mansion promptly got a new chapter – one where the tiny old woman was a playful witch, transmuting flavors into fears and carving an unforgettable Halloween into the heart of the neighborhood.
Now, every trick-or-treater knew, in Miscrest Mansion, it was the chocolates that went bump in the night.