When I was twelve years old I saw my first ghost on a bitter Halloween. It was bitter because my father had died only a week before. I don't think you'd want to know how. My mother decreed that we would not celebrate Halloween that year, that it would be inappropriate. My older brother pleaded with her. I think he even cried a little for her, but she wasn't to be dissuaded. My mother was like that. In the end the house lights stayed off, with the exception of the upstairs bathroom, and there were no Jack-o- lanterns, there were no paper skeletons.

I said nothing.

My mother didn't come to say goodnight to me the way she used to every night before my father died. She didn't tuck me in, and she read no story. That was okay though, I had no intention of going to bed. Instead I stuffed my backpack with everything a good scout takes when camping overnight. I had a change of clothes, a compass, a red flashlight with new batteries, and matches in a steel canister to keep them dry. I had a flask of water, food from the pantry, my down filled sleeping bag, and my prize possession, a single-man canvas tent.

I slipped out the window, dropped my backpack to the ground, and shimmied down the trellis with the dying roses. My brother had already left by another route and gone to visit a friend. My mother would be unconscious in a drug-induced slumber without dreams of my father to keep her crying.

I didn't really have a plan. I wasn't going anywhere in particular, but as I'd thought to bring camping gear, I started walking towards the end of Duncan street where there was a yellow barrier, and beyond that the forested hills that went up to the mountains. Along the way I saw the remains of the night, and all the things I'd missed. Jack-o-lanterns, some whole with leering faces, some smashed and slashed, dragged down the asphalt of the road like a man's head split open. Some houses had paper skeletons on their storm doors, or fake headstones on the lawn. I thought of my father's grave, the dirt still freshly piled on top, not yet starting to settle. I thought of the flowers left behind, and I wondered if they were wilting now, rotting. I wondered if he was too.

At the end of Duncan street I went around the yellow barrier and paused for a moment at the mouth of a path where the trees parted just a little bit. Somewhere up the street behind me someone had left a tape playing with spooky music, the kind you can buy at the Wal-Mart for five bucks with moaning and wailing and off key harpsichord. Those discordant sounds were pulled down the street by the wind and swept past me into the ragged trees with the bony fingers, and mingled with the dying leaves. I thought I could smell smoke from someone's chimney. The image of a pleasant fire, warm blankets, and hot chocolate came to me and reminded me off the chill that slowly crept through my clothes, and my long-johns to numb my flesh. The older boys said this forest was haunted.