“TRICK-OR-TREAT! SMELL OUR FEET!”, the crude chorus of three demands.

“GIVE US CAN-DY OR YOU’RE ZOMBIE MEAT!”, an improvised line from the only male of the bunch. He giggles at his joke, while the pair rolls their eyes, shifts.

Faces brighten as the door opens, spilling golden light onto the porch, warming their faces with the heat within. Wigs and skirts are adjusted, smiles widened. The silhouette of an aged woman holds a giant bowl and adjusts the glasses hanging off her nose.

“Oh, wow! Look at all these loverly costumes!” She’s genuine in her amazement. To the girl with the glasses and black wig, “And what are you supposed to be, little girl?”

“Enid, of the comic book Ghost World.”

“Fantabulous!” She doesn’t know who that is, but gives her a handful of candy, gleefully. To the girl in the glimmering suit coat and short red wig, “And you?”

“Why, I’m,” she does a short, amateur tap dance, "Columbia of the Rocky Horror Picture Show!”

“Splendid!” She smiles and gives her the candy. She looks toward the tall, lanky gentleman accompanying them, almost disappearing into the night in a black t-shirt and jeans.

“I am an unbitten zombie.”

The woman blinks.

“A what?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, let me turn it up. I said I’m an unbitten zombie!” He’s not shouting, and not patronizing in the least.

“No, no.” She laughs a bit. “I heard you, but I think I misunderstood you.”

“I’m an unbitten zombie. What’s the issue?”

“Oh, honey, that’s not a real costume.” She laughs a bit.

“Yes, it is.” Sharply. “Now, give me the Whoppers, lady, come on!”

He slaps her fist, releasing the candy into his Jack Skellington Bucket.

“Why I…!”

He slams the door on her before she can finish.

“Thanks and good night! Houses to hit, candy to get!” And he’s off the porch.

The pair’s after him, walking astride him along the uneven concrete.

“Reese, really!” Colombia is livid. “Keep that up and we’re tossing you to the chupacabras.”

“Crotchety, dusty dames.” He mutters, reaching into his bucket, retrieving a Tootsie Pop. “Let’s try this house.”

They meander down the wet, leaf lined streets, dotted with popsicle-orange spotlights. The routine’s the same, save for Reese’s aliases; at one house, he’s the “before” Seth Brundle, a fangless vampire at another, and a homicidal maniac to the house at the edge of the park, (“because, y’know, they look like everyone else.”)

To rest, they sit on the steps of a tenement building, watching the parade of giddy first-timers, experimenters, drama students and genuine freakazoids.

“What I never understood about zombies,” Angel begins, watching a discussion between Darth Maul and Spock become heated, “if they eat, do they…defecate? I mean, if they didn’t, it’d be unnatural.”

“Yeech, Reese’s Buttercups.” Reese throws it back into the bucket, disgusted.

“You don’t like those?” Demonica’s watching the dance-off between ’85 Madonna and ’92 Madonna. Nobody’s winning, but ’98 doesn’t look so bad.

“Ironically, no.” Matter-of-factly.

Shrug.

It’s around the near climax of Beetlejuice, where the sugar coma hits everyone. They and candy wrappers lie littered on the floor of Reese’s apartment.

Halloween on a Monday. How does that happen?