On the outskirts of the town where I was born, there was a peculiar house, painted drearily gray with creeping ivy. As a kid, we used to make daring bets on Halloween to knock on its door. This year, I took a deep breath and approached the door.
The door creaked open, revealing a diminutive woman with gray hair, her hazel eyes twinkling. “Oh, you youngsters!” She chuckled, “do come in and wipe your feet.”
Against my screaming instincts, I stepped inside. Cobwebs hung like tattered curtains and faded portraits adorned the walls. “I’ve baked some pumpkin cookies”, she offered, revealing a plate stashed under a red checkered cloth. Gulping down my fear, I took a bite.
The sweet taste of cinnamon filled my mouth. Soon, my fright was replaced by the warm hospitality of the woman. For years, we flocked to the woman’s house every Halloween for treats and stories.
Years later, after leaving town, I returned on a crisp October evening. With a nostalgic smile, I revisited the gray house. It was then I discovered it had been abandoned for years. A shiver ran down my spine as I remembered the delicious pumpkin cookies, served by a ghost.