The things that went 'bump' in the night were an eighth-grader breaking into a second-floor window in our house in Danforth and a dog on the porch.

We knew he was an eighth-grader, because we stood outside in the dark and watched him. In fact, I had helped him up onto the porch roof.

That night my wife and I were sponsoring the East Grand Elementary School Halloween party in the beat-up old shed behind our house. We had decorated the shed with all sorts of frightening, evil beings, in particular of which the fake eyeballs retain their place in my approaching-yet-another-of-many-Halloweens memory.

As we all gathered outside in the deepening dusk, my wife decided to go into the house for something she'd forgotten. She also soon realized that we had forgotten to unlock the doors before coming outside and shutting the door behind us. (These were the kind of door locks that you can open from the inside and walk out without unlocking them. It might have been a Halloween evil spirit embodied in some genius who invented them.)

The eighth-grader who broke (although the upstairs windows had remained unlocked) and entered had done so to save the horrors of the Halloween party.

During that day, the day before the horrible Halloween party, one eighth-grader had warned me that "...we will get your house tonight." Scary enough, as eighth-graders generally are, even when trying to learn something in class or trying not to. We thought about that threat, but, since it had been issued by one of our eighth-graders, not too seriously.

But the Halloween God of Protection for Eighth-Grade Teachers and Teaching Principals might have listened more carefully than did we. There lived across town a man and his big dog, a German Shepherd by breed if not nationality. That night the German Shepherd, perhaps stirred by the Halloween God of Protection for Eighth-Grade Teachers and Teaching Principals, did something it never had before done. It wandered across town and, apparently either tired from its venture or in hopes of wolfing down some Halloween candy left over from the horrible Halloween party, deposited itself on our porch.

The German Shepherd stayed all night on our porch. No ghosts, goblins, nor eighth-graders bothered our house.

That was the Halloween night of bumping sounds made by the eighth-grader gaining legal entry into our second story window and of thumping sounds made by the German Shepherd as it sat, lay, rolled around, and scratched his Halloween fleas on our porch.

A screech occurred a few nights ago, not the usual high-pitched or even eerie medium-pitched screech of our owls who are our neighbors in the woods outside Our Final Resting Place, but a deeper-pitched screech. Was this the Great Halloween Owl, giving us a Halloween preview of his or her skills? Or was it one of our regular owl-guys or owl-gals honing in on a bunny breakfast, an owl guy or gal with a bit of laryngitis brought on by his/her all-night damp-woodsy ventures?

We knew it wasn't the Great Pumpkin of Peanuts fame, because we don't grow pumpkins. Usually we grow winter squash, because we enjoy baking and eating it long after Halloween has scared the wits out of all of us. This year's winter squash, because of a marking error on the package, turned out to be summer squash. It was good, didn't taste mismarked.

We didn't know the source of the screeching, but kitties apparently did, as Big Buy made a running dive for our bed and snuggled among our legs for possible security reasons, and the big coon-cat girl, Kitty, dove under the sofa, her usual place of safety in times of grave, imagined danger. Sweetie never awoke from her napping spot by the microwave. We always wonder what she's afraid she'll miss out of the electronic beastie.

We hadn't imagined the pre-Halloween screech. So, I did what I needed to do in this 4 a.m. situation, got up and got ready to leave to drive my early-morning bus to Bar Harbor. Dolores rolled over and went back to sleep so she wouldn't have to listen to my banging (quietly) around in the kitchen.

This morning we also heard our regular owl, hooting as it would any day or night that isn't Halloween.

But there was no bump or screech outside our Swanville house one very dark autumn evening years ago. Just the two dogs, directing their uncertain attention out the front picture window, toward one side. I went out with both black Labs to investigate. (Black is a great Lab color for spooky perhaps-near-Halloween tales.) There was a street light, caddycorner across the dirt road near the corner of our neighbors' lot. That street light offered a bit of illumination from behind, as I walked toward the front corner of our house toward which both dogs, now neatly tucked behind me to protect me against an attack from the rear, focused their nervous glances.

The street light also illuminated the pair of eyes staring at me from just above an ornamental spruce at the corner of the house. They were about as high as a deer's would have been, perhaps a bit higher. Maybe not as high as a genuine Halloween monster -- or moose. Maybe as high as a black bear's would have been, standing to better view our trio as we gingerly moved closer.

I never found out which ghost, goblin, or critter was behind those eyes. Silence reigned, and fear mounted -- mine. After a bit, I turned in the night to both dogs and all three of us quietly walked back to the door and inside. It's not that we were really afraid. It's more like we were not believers in scaring or otherwise disturbing ghosts, goblins, or dark-of-the-night critters,

he bravely said years later while writing this in broad daylight.

Milt Gross can be reached for corrections, harassment, or other purposes at lesstraveledway@midmaine.com.

Milton M. Gross Copyright 2011