I didn’t wear the mask. You’ve got to believe me. It was Blimpie McPherson. Oh, he wanted me to wear the mask, but I refused. It stunk of old sweat.

          It was a worn and old rubber Frankenstein mask from several Halloweens ago. It was meant to scare little Bobby Thorson.

         Blimpie was one of those nature nuts. He didn’t like the way Bobby came to the swamp every day and threw rocks at the frogs.

          It was just to put a scare into him, so he would stop his terrorizing of these helpless creatures; to see how he felt about a taste of his own medicine.

        So Blimpie wore the mask, and I hurled the stone. It was to whiz past Bobby and put a little scare into him. Then, Blimpie jumped out of the bushes with that mask.

        However, Bobby chose that same time to react to the rock, saw the mask, was petrified for a moment with fright and the rock banged him on the skull.     

       Bleeding, Bobby ran from the swamp into the busy street. Yes, a car was speeding along; the driver, Nat Hornsby, was late for a meeting with his parole officer. Bobby was killed instantly.

      Nat Hornsby, feeling guilt and there was nothing left to live for, committed suicide.

     Bobby’s parents, overcome with remorse, suddenly became abusers of his two brothers and sister. They were turned over to a foster family, who also were abusers.

    The boys became abusers themselves, and were incarcerated. The sister-who knows, she may have been the worst of all-began writing terrible horror tales in free verse. She, too, paid the penalty.

    In prison, all were sexually assaulted, two in the shower, one who seemed to enjoy it more, right in the cell.

   At gunpoint, each killed a guard, escaping to the roof. Each was mowed down by machine gun.

   The guard who killed them had too much of a conscience. He couldn’t live with his act, and killed himself.

   His son grew close to an uncle who physically abused him. That was when he began to hurl rocks at the frogs in the swamp.