“Who was it, dear?” asked one of the hooded figures. She said the word “dear” the way an executioner’s ax might say the word “thud,” if it could speak as it was lopping off someone’s head.

“That weird kid from number 501,” said Mr. Abernathy to his wife, for it was she who had spoken. “And his dog.”

“What did he want?”

“He was trick or treating.”

“But it’s not even Halloween yet.”

“I know. I told him that. I think there’s something wrong with him. And his dog,” Mr. Abernathy added.

“Well, he’s gone now. Silly child.”

“Can we get on with it?” said a male voice from beneath another hood. “I want to go home and watch football.” The man in question was quite fat, and his robe was stretched taut across his belly. His name was Reginald Renfield, and he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing standing around in a smoke-filled basement dressed in a robe that was at least two sizes too small for him. His wife had made him come along, and nobody argued with Doris Renfield. She was even bigger and fatter than her husband, but not half as nice, and since Mr. Renfield wasn’t very nice at all, that made Mrs. Renfield very unpleasant indeed.

“Reginald, do keep quiet,” said Mrs. Renfield. “All you do is complain. We’re having fun.”

“Oh,” said Reginald. “Are we?”

He didn’t see anything particularly amusing about standing in a cold basement wearing a scratchy robe, trying to summon up demons from the beyond. Mr. Renfield didn’t believe in demons, although he sometimes wondered if his friend Mr. Abernathy might have married one by accident. Mrs. Abernathy frightened him, the way strong women will often frighten weak men.