By Carl Papa Palmer

The Florence Nightingale costume
red splattered with face paint blood
from Halloween makeup tubes
arranged on the bathroom sink.

Watching Mom in the mirror
transform the clear complexion
of her lovely daughter into
the ghastly black and green
of the dreaded Nurse Hatchet.

The pre-teen soft voice altered by
the concealed electronic box
issues Darth Vader’s whispering rasp
bringing unease to each household adult
cautiously filling her request and quickly
closing the door.

As she turns to leave, fellow ghosts and
goblins open a wide path for the nurse’s
departure, feeling her power to frighten
all neighbors on this night.

While checking her stash of goodies,
finding herself alone past the corner
before the cul-de-sac of unlit houses,
she hears a low moan and looks back.

Her knees lose strength, weapon forgotten,
frozen with fear, too frightened to scream,
as the masked monk slowly approaches and
speaks her name in Daddy’s laughing voice.