The Night He Came Home
My name is Renan. I lived in Colatina, Brazil.
When I was a kid, Halloween did not exist on my street. October arrived hot, with the smell of the Rio Doce in the air and the late afternoon taking its time to go dark. There was no candy at the door, no costumes lined up on the sidewalk. There was, instead, the house we crossed faster, the one someone swore had a story. There were the adults’ warnings: don’t talk to strangers; don’t take long coming back; say where you are. Above all, there was the idea that something could cross the short distance between the gate and the corner and never return a child.
In Colatina, “witch” was not a costume imported from an American calendar. It was a word that dropped the volume of a conversation. I still did not know what that meant for real. I only...
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