The Moon in the Mail Slot — By the third porch, Perry had stopped rattling his pumpkin pail and started listening. Read the full story →
By the third porch, Perry had stopped rattling his pumpkin pail and started listening. The old brick house at the corner gave off a cinnamon-cold smell, and its lantern clicked softly in the wind. Everyone said the last treat there appeared only if you found where the moon was hiding. Perry wanted it so badly his monster hood felt prickly around his ears.
He stepped off the safe path and onto the creaky stoop. A paper bat tapped the door: flap, flap, hush. No bell. No knock. Just a brass mail slot grinning below the panels. Perry crouched, paid the price of one candy corn to a daring squirrel in the flowerpot, and peeked through. Inside the slot lay a silver envelope no bigger than his thumb.
“Don’t tell the grown-ups,” whispered a voice like leaves in a pocket. Perry opened it and found not candy, but a tiny map of every porch light that would wink before bedtime. He ran home by a new zigzag route, richer than sweet, and if your eyes check the mail slot on that old door, maybe you’ll see where the moon was hiding.
