THERE WERE few callers to Causeway Avenue on Hallow'een evening, and even fewer to the final terraced house on the right-hand side, which was well off the beaten path for the Clontarf trick or treaters.

That the lamp post outside was broken and the house shrouded in darkness meant there was little to entice the youthful phantoms of the night down this gloomy alley.

While it didn't help either that number one was hardly the equivalent of Dracula's Castle.

True, there was a hollowed pumpkin in the front window but it wasn't lit, while a tattered toy skeleton, which had seen better days, was cellotaped forlornly to the front door.

Inside, a basket of nuts stood on the hall stand along with a Tesco bag of mixed oranges and apples. A few coins lay scattered close by.

In the front room, a rotund middle-aged man sat alone, occasionally peering out from behind the curtain to see if any revellers were on their way.

It was seven o'clock and in the distance Vinny Fitzpatrick could hear fireworks explode but in between the fizzes and cracks, there was only the sound of silence.

No children's voices, no laughter, no bangers even, filtered through to this reclusive corner of Dublin 3.

It hadn't always been like this. As a toddler, Vinny remembered when the street had teemed with activity, when dozens of kids had larked about as ghouls and ghosts, witches and warlocks.

Vinny had a cape and used to pretend he was Batman, as he knocked on doors, belted out a blast of Dublin doggerel and thrust a brown paper bag under the noses of the Nolans, Byrnes, Bradys and Halpins.

Later, he'd gather in the kitchen at home with his sisters where his dad, Finbarr, would organise party games and his ma, Bridie, would serve up barm brack smothered in butter and glasses of Taylor Keith lemonade - a real treat.

Vinny's favourite pastime was "Dunk The Apple" which involved plunging your head into a bucket of chill water and trying to retrieve the apples that were bobbing about.

Sometimes, his dad would throw a tanner or a thrupenny bit into the bottom of the bucket which meant having to dive deep to retrieve the booty, a task Vinny embraced with gusto even if it meant a right dousing.

Later, there would be card games - Snap, Old Maid, Beggar My Neighbour - before a contented Vinny would roll up the stairs, complete with his bag of fruit, nuts and maybe, a coin or two.

He loved Hallow'een then; he still did today and was upset that no one called but didn't let on.

He knew it didn't help that there were fewer kids on Causeway Avenue these days.

Between old age pensioners and upwardly mobile young business types, there weren't many families on the street any more. Mind you, it wasn't the sort of place that lent itself to raising a family.

It was nearly half past seven and Vinny was about to stick an Indian dinner for two - onion bhaji, Tandoori chicken — in the microwave when he heard his doorbell ring.

Excitedly, he tugged the door open, a fistful of nuts and fruit in his meaty paw.

There were two of them; boys dressed up like the Blues Brothers.

That they looked a little old for Hallow'een japes didn't concern Vinny. "Howya lads. How about a trick and I'll give you a treat," he said.

The Blues Brothers didn't reply. Instead, they removed heaving swag bags from their shoulders. "Chocolate or money, mister. No rubbish," they demanded.

Vinny ducked back inside the hall and grabbed a handful of coins from the hall table.

"Not a lot left lads, it's been a busy night around here," he said, dropping a number of coins into either bag.

The Blues Brothers looked at one another. "I told you there was no point coming down here. It's full of old fogies who haven't a clue about Hallow'een," said the taller of the two.

"I wouldn't mind if we got a few euro instead of this mickey mouse money. C'mon let's get out of this crypt," said the other.

Cackling, the Blues Brothers headed off.

Vinny closed the door and looked at the untouched mound of nuts and fruit. "Shame to let this go to waste," he thought to himself.

A minute or two later, Vinny was sitting in his front room, armed with a nut-cracker and a six-pack of stout. As he chomped happily on the nuts - monkey, Brazil, hazel and almond - he was brought back to his youth.

Every bite reminded him of a time when he wore short trousers and how the only house he ever lived in was aglow with warmth, cheer and love.

Sitting there, surrounded by splintered nutshells, orange peel and apples, Vinny could still see his parents sitting in their fireside chairs; hear the giggling of his sisters as they played another prank on their kid brother.

On this night, the ghosts of Hallow'een past from this corner of Clontarf were very much alive in the mind of a corpulent, balding, 50-year-old who had never quite grown up.

In a month's time, he would be married - a prospect that filled him with excitement and fear- and what would happen to Causeway Avenue then?

Angie, his bride to be, had already made it clear that Vinny was moving into her swanky detached house on Mount Prospect Avenue.

She was even converting an unused bedroom into a bolt-hole where Vinny could watch the sport on telly and place his bets on-line in privacy.

While Vinny loved Angie to bits, the thought of moving out of the only nest he'd ever known was quite unnerving. He knew he would never sell the house and the notion of letting it out to someone appalled him even if there was a financial incentive for doing so.

No, he would keep the old house it as he knew it; a familiar world of smells and shells, cans and cores. With that, he noisily cracked open another almond, sending shell splinters flying across the floor, and settled deeper into his favourite armchair.

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