When I was 8 years old, I was told I had the bowels of an 80-year-old man. This wasn’t uttered by just anyone. A doctor said it. It was Halloween night, and I had just finished trick-or-treating in a family friend’s neighborhood. I came back to their house, dumped my haul on the living room floor for parental inspection and theft, and complained of a stomachache to my parents. The first question wasn’t how bad it hurt; it was, “We told you not to eat any candy until we inspected it.” I wondered what it mattered that I snuck a piece of candy. What mattered was that my stomach hurt, and bad. Before long, it had ballooned up as if someone had stuck an air hose up my ass and cranked it to 11.

Thankfully, the woman who owned the house was a nurse, and she suggested my parents take me to the emergency room. I don’t remember much about my hospital stay, except that it lasted a few days or a week, as my parents would say when they recounted the story. They also liked to mention the 80-year-old bowels comment. What I remember is getting a tan stuffed teddy bear for my troubles, although I don’t remember its name or when I lost it, and I never found out what was wrong with me or if my bowels are now those of a 136-year-old man.

After that, I had pretty normal Halloween nights. No more hospital visits. I grew older and enjoyed my children’s trick-or-treating years, when I could keep the inspection and theft traditions alive. Otherwise, Halloween came and went with little thought or fanfare. The last two Halloweens, I was hiking on the Isle of Skye in Scotland, and on one of those hikes, I poured a dram of whisky while taking in a stunning view, realized it was Halloween, toasted the occasion with my wife, and kept on.

Earlier this year, I relocated to Newport, VT, to be closer to my granddaughter, Lilo, who turns 8 in November, and Halloween has already hit differently. I’ve found myself decorating the house and carving pumpkins. I am happy to have her as my excuse. I bought full-sized candy bars to hand out and make a great impression on my neighbors, and I was amazed to learn Lilo had never seen candy bars that size before. She thought they only came in fun size. One day, after decorating white paper bags with scary faces to line up my driveway on Halloween night, she asked me to tell her a scary story. I thought for a moment before one came to me:

“There was once an 8-year-old boy who wanted to carve a jack-o’-lantern, but his mother told him to wait until his father got home. Not satisfied, the boy took the pumpkin into the garage, where he found a large buck knife in his father’s toolbox. The kind that unfolds and locks into place if you work it correctly. Not realizing this, and eager to finish his masterpiece before his mother found out, he didn’t open the knife all the way. When he attempted to stab the pumpkin for the first cut, the knife closed in on his pinky finger, and he bled all over the garage floor. Some say he got away with it and never showed his parents. Others wonder if his parents found out and the boy was never heard from again, but you know what I think? I think the knife wound left a scar like THIS!”

At that moment, I flung my hand toward Lilo’s face so she could see the half-inch scar where a buck knife had once closed on it. She jumped back, more startled than scared. I dropped my hand and asked if she was okay. Then she laughed and said, “This is about you!”

Yes, and there are more where that came from.

Kevin Vandever’s Next Draft

If These Bowels Could Talk