The Cookie

It was Halloween,
the kind of night that stretched
with promise,
where every shadow held excitement
and every lit porch
was an invitation to dream.

We lived on base, just outside Seattle,
where rain was less an event,
more a constant hum—
a soft percussion against windows and rooftops.
The streets glistened,
a patchwork of puddles and reflected light.

I was young, maybe four or five,
too small to know how the world worked,
too full of wonder to think
there was anything to fear.

We dressed up that evening—
costumes pulled tight,
plastic buckets ready,
their empty hollows waiting for the weight of candy.
Someone was Cindy Lou Who;
her blonde curls bounced with every step.
She skipped ahead,
her laughter fading into the misty dark.

House by house,
we climbed porches and rang doorbells,
each door opening like magic.
Faces lit up when they saw us.
A quick, familiar refrain:
“Trick or treat!”
Candy dropped like treasure
into waiting buckets.

But the magic dimmed
when we left the streets behind.
I should’ve known—
happiness never lasted long.
We stepped into McDonald’s,
the warmth rushing over us,
the smell of grease and salt a strange comfort.

In the line, I saw the cookies.
They were golden,
wrapped in clear plastic,
stacked neatly behind the counter.
I wanted one.
It was a small thing,
but for a child,
a cookie could be everything.

I asked him first.
“Can I have a cookie, please?”
I even said please.
He looked down at me, his voice a wall.
“No.”

But I was young—too young
to understand why asking twice
could spark a storm.
So I turned to her, my mother,
her face soft, her voice gentle.
If only I knew how she ignited the storm more then.
“Can I have a cookie?”
“Yes,” she said.

It felt like relief,
like the night might stay intact.
My childlike innocence not understanding the dynamics of adults who play games.
But then he turned, his voice sharp:
“Did she ask you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you say yes?”
“Yes,” My mom snickered.

I should have seen it coming,
but I didn’t.
His hand moved so quickly,
a flash in my periphery.
The sting came first,
then the sound—
a crack that seemed to echo forever
inside the bright, sterile walls
of that McDonald’s.

My cheek burned,
and my eyes blurred.
I looked around,
at the strangers in the room,
their faces carefully turned away.
No one said anything.
No one ever said anything.

When we got home,
I thought the night might be over,
but the bonfire was already lit.
Neighbors gathered, their voices rising,
their faces flickering with firelight.

And then he brought it out—
the mask.
Scream.

It wasn’t just the mask.
It was the way he moved,
slow, deliberate,
his shadow twisting against the flames.
The hollow eyes seemed alive,
fixed on me,
pulling me into a nightmare
I couldn’t escape.

I screamed, the sound raw,
tearing through the night.
I cried so hard my chest ached,
but the laughter around the fire only grew.
His laughter,
sharp and cruel,
drowned out everything else.

Even now,
when the leaves start to turn,
when the air smells like rain
and porch lights glow in the dark,
I think of that night—
not as a story to tell,
but as a moment etched deep,
a fragment of who I became.

The slap, the mask, the firelight—
they are threads in the fabric of memory,
woven tightly,
never to unravel.

But they do not define me.
What lingers isn’t fear,
but that of a child
who learned to carry her own
through the trials.

~CK 10.31.24