TAROT DRACONIS: Knight of Chalices

Trick or Treat

“Go on, do it,” the boys stood before the gate and egged Ralphie on. He wiped his sweaty palms on the seat of his pants and adjusted the cardboard breastplate he’d made. Tonight he was a knight, and this was his quest. He tightened the twine around his legs that held the cardboard shinguards in place and set his cardboard helmet straight. Ralphie held his makeshift cardboard sword and took a deep breath. 

Skeletal fingers of dead bushes snaked over the yard’s dry ground. The house itself was always dark, the windows empty eye sockets and the rotted wooden door gritted fangs. The moon shone bright and cast eerie shadows over the place. 

“Go,” Winston, a small boy with chubby fingers and thick glasses gave Ralphie a soft shove. Dressed in his green sweatsuit, a garbage can lid strapped to his back and his sister’s purple head wrap and ribbons, he’d transformed himself into Donatello of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. He gripped his broomstick, a pretend bo. 

Ralphie glanced at his friends, nodded and took a step forward, “One small step for man…”

“Oh, just get on with it!” Timmy, an unoriginal ghost with a blanket draped over his body and holes for eyes, yelled and started the crows cawing. 

Ralphie trudged through the thorny remnants of the once lively flora that tickled his ankles. He hoped the door wouldn’t budge. He pushed it and, with a hollow groan, the rotted door creaked open. Ralphie’s heart sank, and he gazed back at his friends. No one laughed or heckled him. They stared, pale and gaunt in the moonlight, their homemade Halloween costumes pathetic before the spooky house. 

Ralphie inched in with his sword held out in front. One step at a time his feet took him further into the cavernous darkness of the long-abandoned house; every footstep creaked and resounded over the walls. The stinging smell of rusty metal cut his throat like jagged razors. Ralphie stopped by the stairs and, in the dim moonlight peering through the gaping windows, he glimpsed the remnants of furniture and debris. 

The piercing scream rushed like an icy gust of wind down the stairs and Ralphie froze, his knees trembled yet rooted to the spot. 

“Leave,” a deep voice whispered in his ear and chills crept up his spine, his back stiffened and the hair on his nape stood on end like a frightened cat. 

“Leave!” The voice yelled and a flash of light punched Ralphie in the gut. He fell backwards and slid across the floor to the threshold. Winded and afraid, he clambered and crawled to the stoop. The rotted door slammed and hit him on the backside. 

The boys watched terrified as Ralphie picked himself up and staggered toward the rusty gate; his helmet askew and one loosened shinguard slapping against his leg, the sword forgotten on the stoop. The house grumbled and flashed, as if a storm raged inside though the sky was clear, the moon a bright tranquil witness. 

“LEAVE!” The voice boomed, and the ground shook. The boys turned and ran towards the merry sound of the trick-or-treaters on the next street. 

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