Stuffy night air was filled with excitement as children paraded around in costumes giggling, buckets brimming with candy. Among them, spirited little Billy, dressed as pirate, had only one house left on his route – the haunted Victorian mansion at the end of Maple Street.
With a thudding heart, he stepped on the creaking porch, the wooden planks groaned under his weight. The mansion had been vacant for years, but tonight it was oddly vibrant. Lights flickered in the windows and pumpkins glowed wickedly on the path.
“Trick or treat!” He shouted, his voice echoed back. The oversized door creaked open, revealing a towering figure, draped in a cloak. Billy screamed and dropped his bucket, ready to bolt. But then he heard laughter. Lit by the soft glow of the pumpkin candle, the figure removed his cloak.
It was Mr. Johnson – the grumpy old man from down the street. His stern face had been replaced with a wide grin. “Gotcha, Billy!” He roared, his laughter contagious. “Now, how about I treat you to some of my famous caramel apples?”
And so, the neighborhood kids realized the haunted Victorian mansion wasn’t so scary after all. The real ghost of Maple Street was Mr. Johnson, and he was a lot less grumpier on Halloween.