Every year exactly one week before Halloween, Ms. Mitchell, Maybell and Jonathan’s neighbor who lived alone near the end of their street, would set out a special bowl of treats. The bowl was porcelain with foliage painted on it, big enough that a person could press their whole face inside if it wasn’t full. Near the bowl of pre-Halloween treats on her front porch, Ms. Mitchell set out a sign warning others not to take anything from it. “It’s for Benjie Mitchell,” the sign read.
The whole neighborhood speculated about it, while for one reason or other not daring to ask. Maybe Benjie was a lost child or pet. Whenever someone got close enough to the bowl, they could see that not only did it have candy, but it also had dog treats. Every so often someone joked that Benjie could be a werewolf.
By the time Halloween day arrived, the porcelain bowl and sign were gone, and sitting on another rocking chair was a gaudy plastic one with ordinary Halloween candy, chocolate bars, candy corn, gummy bears, and the like.
Eight-year-old Maybell and her ten-year-old brother Jonathan decided to take some of Benjie’s treats one year. There were plenty of houses to trick-or-treat at along their street and the others nearby, and no shortage of treats. They decided to take some treats from Benjie’s bowl to see what would happen.
They chose the night of a full moon during the week before Halloween.
Out they went with little plastic bags they had gotten from their parents’ pantry.
“The more treats we get, the more likely a werewolf comes after us,” Maybell said. Then she added with a touch of solemnity, “Ms. Mitchell’s little boy was probably bitten by a werewolf and changed. Now he needs a diet of candy and dog treats, and only the week before Halloween ‘cause of a curse. He might need a friend, too.”
“I want to show you that nothing is going to happen,” Jonathan said.
Under moonlight, they went to the porcelain bowl on Ms. Mitchell’s front porch. They stuffed their plastic sandwich bags to the brim with licorice, suckers, bubble gum, and chocolate bats. Then they put a few bone-shaped dog treats in the other bags, placed everything in their pockets, and were on their way back home.
That night, nothing happened. But the very next night, someone knocked on Maybell’s bedroom window. She saw a boy about her age standing outside.
She opened the window a crack.
“Tracked my treats here,” he said. He was to all appearances a normal boy. “Thought my bowl hadn’t been filled enough. Need that for a whole year. Asked Mama and she said she didn’t take anything.”
“Are you Benjie?” Maybell said. “You must have a dog’s sense of smell.”
“Yes, I’m Benjie. My sense of smell isn’t great, but his sure is.”
Just then the boy turned to the side, and in the moonlight Maybell could see a dog fused onto the boy’s shoulder and back.
