The fourth house seems pretty small and there is a strange black man holding a gee-tar painted on it. You press a button by the side which you presume is a door bell. It isn’t and the doors slide open revealing that the house is in fact an oddly placed elevator. It stinks of pee. A metallic voice coughs over the intercom.
“Doors closing.” Followed by a less than subtle omen “Going down.”
Elevator music plays as you twiddle your thumbs. “One… Two… Three” the voice croaks the announcements until eventually “Nine. This is your final destination I hope you have fun please use Enigmatic Elevator travel again on your next holiday to hell. Thank you.”
“HELL!?” You scream. “Oh no, Take me back up, take me back up! I’ll never trick or treat again! Please oh I’m sorry.” You panic hysterically.
“Relax kid it was just an expression. You’re in Alabama.”
The doors slide open and sure enough you’re in thr deep-south, Mordor-of-the-modern-world, Alabama. It’s all doorstep shotguns and churches. In front of you stands the man represented on the elevator doors. (They slide closed behind you and melt away along with the elevator.) He’s riddled with holes and his tattered clothes hang off him. He still holds his smashed up guitar in one hand.
From next door there is a shotgun blast and the black man is pushed to the side by the force. He falls down with an indifferent moan. “Damn that fuckin’ nigger! What’s he doing brining back another fuckin’ British kid?” Shouts an angry man. “Oh well, get in here. I got dishes that need a cleaning.”
That Halloween you end up being a servant for the Alabama-man and his black-zombie pet. And indeed every Halloween until you’re thirty-five and all the days in between.