Last night, after two Halloweens of false starts, The Chicken finally made it through "the haunted garage."

About six blocks from our house is a neighborhood that really goes all out for Halloween. They have lots of trick-or-treaters, everyone decorates, everyone has candy. Well, not quite everyone. One particular family doesn't hand out candy, but instead puts on a spook house in their garage.

Halloween two years ago was the first time we took Chicken trick-or-treating in that neighborhood. He was really excited to see the haunted garage and he walked toward it with a bounce in his step. We made it half way up the driveway when two 13 year old girls ran out of the garage screaming (with as much delight as fear) at the sound of a chainsaw.

Yeah, Chicken wasn't so excited anymore. No haunted garage for him.

Last year he started getting excited again. He kept saying, "I'm going through the haunted garage this year. I'm gonna do it. I'm not afraid."

Yeah, we didn't even make into the driveway.

This year he made it. He was scared witless and trying to climb into my pocket by the end of it, but he finally made it. Like father, like son I guess. My first visit to a spook house was hardly a shining example of courage in action.

My first spook house was in a place called Running Bull. That was its name. Running Bull. The people in charge of this spook house really made a good show of things. Running Bull was famous. People would come from a hundred kilometers away to visit this thing. I visited… once. I was about twelve years old, and this was my first spook house.

The only part of the experience I remember is the part that scared the shit out of me. I went through with two friends, Ralph and Sarah. There was a part where we had to pass through a very dimly lit tunnel that wasn't wide enough for three abreast. Ralph and Sarah held hands and led the way. I was behind them with my hands on their shoulders.

We shuffled forward and everything was just fine. Until someone came up behind me and put their hand on my shoulder.

I still had my hands on Ralph and Sarah's shoulders, so I knew it wasn't them. And I knew from waiting in line outside that several minutes would pass between groups of people entering so I knew it wasn't another group of kids. The only option left was Something Scary.

I mustered my courage… and proceeded to ignore it. I figured if I just pretended I don't feel the hand on my shoulder, maybe it would go away. After seven or eight hours (which was probably only ten seconds) the hand grew impatient and started to drum its fingers on my shoulder.

It wasn't going to go away. I had to do something. So I said to Ralph and Sarah, "Um, guys? I think there's something behind me." They turned to look. I didn't. They screamed. I screamed. We all took off running to the next scare.

I never did turn around and look back. To this day, I have no idea what kind of scare that was supposed to be.