This past week, as I sipped my coffee, a segment came on my morning TV show telling parents how to cut back on Halloween expenses in these hard economic times. As the stock market went into a truly spooky death spiral, in an effort to spread the fear down to the next generation, they offered ideas on buying candy in bulk, giving out fewer treats and making, rather than buying costumes. (They missed, of course, the time-honored technique of old people and childless couples everywhere: Simply pull the car in the garage, and close the door, turn off all the lights, sit in the dark, and pretend you're not home. Sure, you end up with trees filled with toilet paper, but think of the money you'll save on candy.)

My wife and I participate in Halloween festivities, but only on a limited basis. Our kids are now at the point where they're beyond dressing up and traipsing through the burb, but we still put out pumpkins and candles, and buy exactly enough mini candy bars to serve the expected number of costumed rugrats. We don't want to clean t-p out of our shrubbery, but we also don't want to buy even one piece of unnecessary candy. If I can plan it properly, I'll hand over the last mini Snickers just as the last group of disgruntled teenagers (too old to be trick or treating) shows up at my door.

I've always admired, though, the people in our neighborhood who go the extra mile, stringing their trees with fake spider webs, playing spooky music and making homemade treats. They seem to plan for the event days in advance, in an effort to make their home the scariest one on the block. Some of them even dress up in terrifying costumes and leap out, screaming, at toddlers, as they come up the walk hoping for some free candy. (Actually, that one's a little creepy.)

I don't want to dress up and hide in the bushes in front of my house, but I've been thinking. I could do my part to make this Halloween just a little spookier and remind the kids of the impending gloom out there. With all this bad news on the nightly news, most of their parents are going to have a chill on Oct. 31. Why not their offspring?

Instead of a creepy costume, I'll just sit on the front stoop at a desk, wearing a business suit. As the kids creep up to get their candy, I'll stare them in the eye.

"Happy Halloween, Jake!" I'll say. As he reaches for a mini candy bar, I'll whisper, "Take an extra one, and hide it under your bed. The way things are going with the economy, you'll probably be expected to miss a few meals!"

As little Suzy reaches for a tiny Nestle's Crunch, I'll say, "Hey, little girl! Ever hear of a 401K? That was supposed to keep Mom and Dad out of your hair when you grew up, but guess what? It disappeared! When you look for your first house someday, remember to tell the realtor you need one with an in-law suite!"

I'll ask little Johnny, "Where do you live, sonny? That brick house around the corner? What do you wanna bet your parents owe more than it's worth? If Mom and Dad drop the keys in the mailbox and ask if you want to go out for a drive, make sure you grab your favorite stuffed animal!"

Near the end of evening, I might present latecomers with the candy bowl, then watch as their little faces fall when they find it empty, a few crumbs in the bottom.

"Ohhh," I'll say sympathetically, "nothing left after everybody else got theirs? That's kind of what Social Security will be like by the time you're old enough to file a claim!"

It might seem a little mean, but I think about next Halloween night when every one of those little tots freeze in their tracks as they approach our house and then ask Mom and Dad if they can just skip this one. I won't need to turn off all the lights and pretend to be out to dinner. I'll be inside, totaling up all the cash I've saved on Halloween treats.

That is, if I still own the house.

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