Mrs. Hollow’s Halloween Trick

By Editor | October 28, 2025 |

By Robin Garrison Leach

Mrs. Hollow was a mystery to every kid in our neighborhood because none of us had ever seen her face. She lived three doors down from our house, in a stately shingled bungalow hidden amid craggy trees and spiny bushes.
Her graveled driveway snaked around stickered, pokey mounds of shriveled petals and dead leaves.
Mrs. Hollow’s front door was bright red. It gleamed in the glaring summer sun and looked grim and garishly gruesome on gray winter days. Long panels of skinny, beveled glass windows flanked each side, creating carnival reflections of the world beyond.
Mom always called her Mrs. Hollow; I thought it was because her first name held a Rumpelstiltskin curse.
When I walked past Mrs. Hollow’s house, I always kept my head down and stared at my shoes. What if I glanced toward those creepy windows, and taloned fingers yanked the curtain back?
I imagined a crackled, gnarly face shoving its flaky skin against the glass, giving me the Evil Eye. I was sure I would crumble into ashes on the spot.
Halloween came, and my brothers and I gulped down our supper, anxious to start trick-or-treating. We were free to roam, hopping over curbs, trampling lawns, battering doors, and smashing doorbells all along our street.
We set out beneath cloudy skies that spat random raindrops, and Mom made us promise to hurry home if it began to rain steadily. We nodded…and crossed our fingers behind our backs.
Porch lights gleamed from every house. We saw friends galloping down their front stoops, tossing out giggles of excitement. I gripped the black handle of my orange plastic pumpkin bucket and ran to keep up.
Door after door. We knocked and wiggle-waited to hear adult feet plod toward us. The door would swing open; we’d sing-song the compulsory “Trick or Treat!” and wait for candy.
Predictably, the adult would ooh and ahh at our costumes, delaying our trek by trying to guess who we were and who we were “supposed to be.”
Sometimes, we had to tell a joke or sing a song to get our treat. We even had to go inside now and then and “show Grandpa.” Grandpa would always be tucked into a tatty recliner, gazing at a blocky, blaring TV.
It started raining harder as we were heading back home. I had to lift my mask and wipe the wet where it had dripped through.
But there was still one house left to visit. The third house from our own.
Mrs. Hollow’s house.
I was the only kid around brave enough to knock on her door, and I did it every Halloween because I knew the payoff.
My brothers stood at the edge of the roadway, ready to run, as I trudged down her crunchy drive. A sickly-yellowed porch light flickered weakly, pulling me in like a hypnotic spell.
The rain-slathered red door drizzled blood lines. They soaked into a tattered, unwelcoming mat below.
I made a fist and pounded a rat-tat-tat. Then, I hopped back, terrified Mrs. Hollow would pull the door open, rush toward me, and yank me inside.
My heart pounded as loudly as the rain.
The doorknob began to turn. It squealed as it spun, as if screaming in rage…or warning. I trained my giant, plastic eyeholes along the crack of the door.
It widened, slowly. Slowly.
From the inky cave of Mrs. Hollow’s house, an age-spotted fist snaked toward my body.
A fleshy, freckled, crepey, arm was attached to the fist. It wobbled on flaccid muscles and stringy tendons as it stretched, longer and longer, into the night.
I held out my bucket and closed my eyes.
PLUNK.
I didn’t have to look. I knew what Mrs. Hollow had dropped inside. And it was a Halloween treat to end all Halloween treats. A treat worth the bravery it was to get.
A legend of generosity that made every coward kid on our street green with envy.
Atop waxed paper-wrapped popcorn balls, soggy-bent Pixy Stix, Bazooka gum squares, and leftover Easter candy, Mrs. Hollow dropped a
FULL-SIZED BUTTERFINGER CANDY BAR.
I mumbled ‘thank you’ to the recoiling arm. Mrs. Hollow’s bloody door slammed shut, and I watched her blobby shadow shrink away to nothing behind one of those creepy side windows. The porch light clicked off.
I thought I heard a cackle, but it was probably just a chuckle.
My brothers shook their heads in grudging respect and jealousy as I strode toward them. We headed home. I took the lead.
I think of Mrs. Hollow every Halloween. Her treat—and trick—is a memory to enjoy forever.
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■ Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected].