S21: NoSleep Podcast Halloween 2024

Kevin and Rachel and peanut MMs and an eight-hour road trip.

And Rachel's new favorite audiobook, The Cerulean Empress, Scoundrel's Inferno.

And Florian, the reckless yet charming scoundrel from said audiobook.

And his packs glistened in the moonlight.

And Kevin, feeling weird because of all the talk about pecs.

And Rachel handing him Peanut MMs to keep him quiet.

Uh, Kevin, I can't hear.

Yellow, we're keeping it PG-13.

MMs, it's more fun together.

Halloween night is here at last.

A night of horror with darkness fast

with tricking or treating, however it's asked, horror for us is always steadfast.

Our tales are dark and they're coming fast.

So brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast.

Boys and girls of every age, wouldn't you like to hear something strange?

Come with us and you will see this, our episode of Halloween.

Yes, this is Halloween.

This is Halloween.

And while I always say that we do Halloween 24-7, 365 around here, there's something special about bringing you creepy tales about the unholy night itself.

We welcome you into the No Sleep Podcast's annual Halloween special.

We have a full-length episode for you featuring tales that will inspire you to don your scariest costume and stuff yourself with fun-sized candy.

On our 2024 Halloween extravaganza, we'll be taking you trick-or-treating down the street in our neighborhood.

Our night out only requires visiting six houses, such as the delightfully dark nature of our town.

Six houses, six batches of candy, six devilish tails for your ears, a group of three sixes.

Sounds about right, doesn't it?

And so, sleepless friends, happy haunted Halloween to you.

Now, let's get started.

Let the trick-or-treating commence.

The first house we'll visit this night belongs to author Lori Stackhouse.

She has lots of sweet traits for us.

That's why the kids in the neighborhood love her, especially little Adam.

He's out for Halloween and loving every minute of it.

And while most kids share the sentiment, Adam is one kid who wishes Halloween wasn't just one night out of the year.

Performing this tale is Ellie Hirschman.

And so enjoy the holiday as much as if it were Adam's Halloween.

I waited.

Eagerly, I watched as chubby fists dipped the ladle into the drink bowl and filled paper cups with ruby-colored punch.

I was next.

I reached for the ladle.

and the white ruffled cuff of my costume caught on the rim of the bowl.

Before it could splash in, I I drew my hand away, bumping the unsteady folding table and creating tiny scarlet waves inside the glass pumpkin.

The adult supervising the drink table scowled and moved the ladle out of my reach.

It was Halloween.

Glorious, wonderful Halloween, my most favorite holiday.

Our school gym had been transformed into a riot of harvest colors.

Black and orange streamers cascaded from the rafters.

Construction paper skeletons, ghosts, and arching black cats danced on the walls.

Glowing jack-o'-lanterns lined the edge of the stage.

The scent of seared pumpkin flesh hung in the heavy, humid air.

Costumed kids, frenzied with sugar, darted between the tables, scattered with delicious treats, iced cupcakes, popcorn balls, snickerdoodles, and chocolate bars.

Shiny apples bobbed merrily in a water-filled metal trough.

An area for dancing was cordoned off with bales of straw.

A parent, dressed as a medieval knight, stood beside a record player and a stack of vinyl albums.

His metal face shield fell with a rusty bang each time he changed a record.

The costumes were dazzling.

A genie with a sparkling turban parried his jewel-encrusted saber.

A pretty ballerina wearing a pink leotard and tutu smiled at me.

Her two front teeth were missing.

A dramatic black cape swooped by.

Inside was a vampire, his small mouth stuffed with white plastic fangs.

A hobo with black shoe polish on his face stuffed his cheeks with popcorn and chatted with a cowboy, weighted down by heavy leather boots and a lariat upon his shoulder.

Ghosts peered from circles cut out of white bedsheets.

A princess and a tiny white bride held hands and skipped in unison with the music.

I was the only clown.

My costume was homemade, stone by my mother, using swatches of red, green, and blue fabric.

Around my neck and wrists were white cuffs, ruffled and heavy with starch.

My face was covered with white grease paint except for my nose and cheeks, which were accented with red circles.

I had wanted oversized clown shoes, but sadly, had to settle for my threadbare blue sneakers.

Cautiously, I approached the crowd surrounding the big metal trough.

A stubborn pirate was thrashing his head beneath the water, trying to trap an apple.

Defeated, he gulped air and shook himself, showering his audience with water.

The girls squealed, and several large drops sprinkled on my face.

I patted it carefully away, hoping my face paint was still intact.

Principal Williams clapped his hands for attention.

The music stopped and the din in the room ebbed.

Smiling, he announced it was time for the final event of the evening, the hayride.

Whoops and claps erupted as the children scrambled to fill their pockets with candy and treats before rushing outside.

I hugged the wall to avoid colliding with the eager crowd as they hurried past me.

The chattering throng poured out of the double doors, trailing candy wrappers behind them.

I hurried to follow.

The chill in the autumn air was a sharp contrast to the overheated gym and felt good on my sweaty head.

The moon loomed in a black suede sky.

Robust winds tossed the treetops and sent costumes fluttering.

Two fat auburn horses stomped and jangled their bits, clouds steaming from their nostrils.

Hay spilled over the sides of the low wooden wagon.

as small feet scrambled for traction.

I pulled myself on board and snuggled down between a linen-wrapped mummy and a scarecrow whose costume blended into the pile of straw.

Parents tossed heavy woolen blankets into the wagon and sternly warned against mischief.

The driver, wearing bib overalls with a bright red bandana hanging from his pocket, hoisted himself onto the wagon seat and, with a flick of his whip, the team of horses surged forward.

There were squeals and giggles as shoulders and kneecaps jostled together.

As the wagon lurched and bumped over the rutted road, I threw back my head and grinned up at the velvety sky.

Never had a night felt so perfect.

A hay fight broke out and straw rained down on my face.

Laughing, I shook it from my hair, the fuzzy shafts tickling my neck.

The hay wagon left the gravel road for a paved residential street.

Families stood on dimly lit porches, waving as we rolled by.

The older trick-or-treaters lumbered from house to house, their bags laden with candy, fingers stiff with cold.

They sneered at us in the wagon, calling us babies and and squirts, secretly jealous that they were too old to attend the annual party.

Too soon, the wagon returned to the gravel road and arrived back at the school.

Children groaned with dismay as the horses were reined to a stop.

The farmer heaved himself to the ground, secured the horses, and began lifting his young passengers from the wagon so they could join their waiting parents.

Their voices echoed as they disappeared into the night.

With a nimble leap, I landed on the frosty grass and headed home.

A smaller boy dressed as a football player walked next to me.

The metal cleats of his shoes made scratching noises as they kicked dead leaves along the sidewalk.

I wanted to talk to him, but the worried expression on his face discouraged me from making any conversation.

The school was long gone from sight.

The streets, which had been ringing with doorbells, cries of trick-or-treat, and laughter, were empty and dark.

The football player, with a nervous glance over his padded shoulder, quickened his pace, and I matched him step by by step.

We flew past shadowy houses and empty lots.

The black eyes of snarling jack-o'-lanters stared as we rushed by.

I stumbled on the uneven concrete and cried out, but the other boy ignored me and kept walking.

A quick jog and I soon caught up.

We were both breathing hard, but neither of us slowed.

Out of the dark, a figure emerged onto the sidewalk from behind a thick hedge.

The stranger wore black clothes that blended into the night, but his face was pale, and his eyes blazed with an odd fire.

My friend jerked to a stop, reeled backwards, and froze.

I stood my ground as the man stealthily approached us, holding his index finger against his lips, warning us to keep quiet.

Another step, and another.

His arm whipped out, grabbing the football jersey.

The cleats screeched against the pavement as my friend twisted and lunged, trying to escape the man's grip.

The man lifted the small boy with one hand easily, pinioned him in the air, and began to speak to to him in a deep and dangerous tone.

The boy flailed his legs and arms, eyes rolling with fear.

He made a small squealing sound, too afraid to scream.

I couldn't hear what the man was saying, but the sight of my helpless friend broke my temporary paralysis.

Blinding rage exploded through my body.

My fists clenched and my eyes felt hot.

Taking a great breath, I flung myself at the man, punching and kicking with all my strength.

Immediately, the man loosened his grip on the football player.

The boy fell to the sidewalk with a thud and rolled onto the spiky grass.

On shaking legs, he sprang up and sped down the black street, cleats shrieking and skidding on the blacktop.

The man whirled around, looking for his attacker.

Curses spewed from his mouth as he shook his head in bewilderment.

But I wasn't finished yet.

The rage continued to burn inside me, incinerating any fear that I might have felt.

Lunging at the man's stomach, I sunk my fingers into his soft belly and began to push.

Arms pinwheeling wildly, the man scrambled for balance as I pushed him backwards.

He cried out and tried to punch my head, but I kept pushing, gaining momentum, using his lack of balance to manipulate him backwards toward a wrought iron fence topped with sharp black finials.

I drew in my breath, using the last of my strength, and gave one final push.

I stared down at the lifeless body.

I wasn't scared, more disappointed.

The bright orange moon winked at me, reflected in the already milky orbs of the man's eyes.

The consuming rage ebbed away, replaced by melancholy.

Sadness that my favorite holiday was over again and would not return for another long year.

I sighed deeply as I entered the iron gates, glided along the moonlit path, and into a pale marble crypt.

Fluffing my starched cuffs, I settled down for the eternal wait for next Halloween.

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The second house we'll visit this night belongs to author K.G.

Lewis.

He can always be relied on for treats, even if you're new in town, like Leonard.

He's trying to figure out all the new and strange local legends.

And some kids don't learn, do they?

There's a reason everyone knows those legends.

Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Matthew Bradford, Ashley McInally, and Peter Lewis.

So leave those candy bowls out and fully stocked, lest you meet the hollow ween.

All right, class, that's all there is for today.

Be safe tonight.

Don't eat too much candy, and don't forget to leave a bowl of treats out for the hollow ween.

We don't want him to go hungry.

The fifth grade class rose as one and bolted for the door.

Everyone was eager to get home so they could start getting ready for the night's Halloween festivities.

Once I was out in the hall, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I turned and found Leonard, one of my classmates, falling into step beside me.

What's up?

Leonard was the newest kid in class.

On his first day of school, Mr.

Adamson tasked me with showing him around the campus.

I did that and thought that was the end of my association with him, but it wasn't.

The next day, Leonard decided we were friends and started hanging around me at lunch and recess.

I didn't really like him.

He was too arrogant and bragged a lot about stupid stuff.

I would have told him to get lost a long time ago, but I couldn't.

Some of the other guys I hung out with seemed to genuinely like Leonard, which forced me to tolerate his presence.

What was Mr.

Adamson talking about?

I had no idea what he was referring to.

Mr.

Adamson talked about a lot of stuff that day.

You're going to have to be more specific.

The Halloween bowl.

What's that all about?

It's hollow ween, not hollow.

And it's just a local tradition.

It's not important.

I tried walking faster, weaving around the other kids in the hall, hoping to put some distance between the two of us, but he kept pace with me.

Come on, man.

tell me what it's all about.

Knowing I wasn't going to get rid of him until he got the information he wanted, I gave him an abbreviated version of the legend of the Halloween.

The Hollow Ween is a monster that comes every Halloween looking for treats to eat, and if it comes to your house and you don't have a bowl of treats out for it, it'll eat you instead.

There was more to the legend than that, but that was the gist of it.

Seriously?

That sounds so stupid.

I ignored him and kept walking, hoping he'd go away now that I'd told him what he wanted to know.

But something suddenly occurred to him.

Wait a minute.

Are you saying that people put out bowls of candy and just leave them there overnight because of some made-up monster?

Yep.

Okay, what do you do with the candy the next morning?

What do you think we do with it?

I thought the answer was obvious, but apparently it wasn't to him.

I don't know.

That's why I'm asking you.

We eat it.

What else do you think we do with leftover Halloween candy?

Leonard had a smile on his face when he asked the next question.

What happens if there isn't any candy in the bowl the next morning?

What do you do then?

I don't know.

That's never happened.

I've heard stories of other kids claiming their bowls were empty the next morning.

But the bowl my family put out was always full of candy the next day.

He threw his arm around my shoulders.

Well, it just might happen tonight.

He grinned at me before rushing up the street toward the neighborhood we lived in.

As I watched him go, I suddenly realized what his final comment meant.

He's going to steal the candy that's left out for the Halloween.

I was sure of it.

I hope he gets caught.

Or better yet, I hope the Halloween eats him.

I smiled at that last thought.

If only it were real.

When I got home, I asked my mom what would happen if someone went around around stealing the Halloween candy.

Honestly, honey, I doubt anything would happen.

I'm sure a lot of the Halloween candy gets stolen every year.

But most people don't care.

It's put outside so the Halloween can take it.

So there's really no point in getting mad if it does get taken.

Why do you ask?

I think one of the kids from my school is going to steal the Halloween candy.

If he does, he does.

I wouldn't waste any time worrying about it.

Anyone who cares that much about their candy doesn't have to leave a bowl out.

Mr.

Gardner across the street has never left a bowl outside, and I'm sure he's not the only one.

Mr.

Gardner's a grumpy old man.

Don't be mean.

I think he's just lonely.

He hasn't been the same since Mrs.

Gardiner left him.

Mr.

Gardiner was married?

I was surprised to hear that.

I didn't think it was possible for anyone to like him.

He was a long time ago.

You don't remember because you were just a baby when Mrs.

Gardner left.

She was such a sweet lady.

My mom got a faraway look in her eyes as she remembered Mrs.

Gardiner.

Why did did she leave?

My mom shrugged.

I have no idea.

We were all shocked when it happened.

Maybe she finally realized he wasn't a nice person.

I knew I shouldn't have said that as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

But I couldn't help myself.

Mom pointed at the stairs.

That's enough.

Go upstairs and start getting ready for dinner.

And don't worry about that kid from school.

If he wants to steal the Halloween candy, let him.

Hopefully he'll get a stomachache when he eats it all.

I I hope it makes him puke his guts out, I thought to myself as I made my way to my room.

After dinner, I put on my zombie astronaut costume and went trick-or-treating with my next-door neighbor Gabriel and his older brother Sam, who was a senior in high school.

I was supposed to go with my friends from school, but mom wouldn't let me because they didn't have a chaperone.

I tried to convince her that I was old enough to go trick-or-treating on my own like my friends were allowed to, but she wouldn't let me.

When I tried to continue the argument by reminding her that she let me walk home from school by myself, she told me that was different and then threatened to ground me for the night if I didn't stop pushing her.

I had more fun than I thought I would.

Sam wasn't as strict as I imagined he was going to be.

and he even took us into the neighboring subdivision where we'd heard rumors that they were far more generous with their candy than our neighborhood.

If my mom knew he'd done that, she'd have given him an earful.

By the time I arrived back home, my bag was full of candy, and my arms were starting to hurt from carrying it.

How was it?

It was okay.

I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing I had a lot of fun with Gabe and Sam.

Plus, I didn't want to get Sam into any kind of trouble for taking us out of the neighborhood.

She reached out for my bag, which I gladly handed over.

Let's see what you got.

As I followed her over to the dining room table, I stripped out of my costume and left it lying on the floor.

I sat in the chair next to hers.

You better not leave that there.

I won't.

I'll take it with me when I go upstairs.

She knew I was eager to get my hands on some of the candy I'd gotten, so she didn't press the issue.

She smiled at me.

You better.

Otherwise, I'm going to eat all this candy myself.

She dumped the contents of the bag onto the table.

Over the next 30 minutes, the two of us went through the candy, separating the ones we liked from the ones we didn't like, eating a few pieces here and there.

When we were done, we had two piles.

The big pile had all the good candy, like Hershey bars, Reese's peanut butter cups, and bags of Skittles, while the smaller one had the not-so-good things, like candy corn, Tootsie Rolls, and Whoppers.

My mom pointed to the bowl she had sitting on the accent table by the front door.

Go get the Halloween bowl.

When I returned with it, she scooped all the candy we didn't want into the bowl and then handed the whole thing to me.

Go put this on the porch and then run upstairs and start getting ready for bed.

I took the bowl outside and set it on the doormat, taking a moment to look up and down the street as I did so.

All the houses I could see had a Halloween bowl sitting on the front porch, all of them except for Mr.

Gardiner's.

I hope it's all crappy candy.

If Leonard really was going to steal the Halloween candy, I didn't didn't want him to get anything good.

It was 10 o'clock when I finally climbed into bed, but I couldn't fall asleep.

I tossed and turned for 30 minutes before I got up and stood at my window, looking out at the street.

I don't know if it was the sugar I ate that was keeping me up, or the knowledge that Leonard was going to steal a bunch of candy and probably get away with it.

I wanted him to get in trouble for it.

The more I thought about it, the more I decided I should do something about it.

I know my mom told me not to worry about it, but I just couldn't let it go.

So, that's why I stood by my window, waiting to see if Leonard would show up.

I figured he'd want me to know what he'd done, so he would make sure to at least steal the candy from my house.

And I was right.

Ten minutes later, I saw him running down the sidewalk with a pillowcase draped over his shoulder.

From the way the pillowcase bulged on his back, it was obvious he had already stolen several bowls worth of candy.

I watched from my window as he crept from door to door, looking at the bowls of candy that were left out for the Halloween.

If he didn't like what he saw, he left the candy alone and moved on to the next house.

From the darkness of my room, I continued watching him until I saw him run up to Mr.

Gardner's house, disappearing into the darkness of the porch.

You won't find any candy there, I thought.

I figured Leonard would quickly realize there was no candy and move on to the next house.

But he never reappeared.

That's weird.

I sat there and waited for several minutes, wondering what was going on, when a light suddenly came on in Mr.

Gardiner's house, illuminating the porch enough for me to see that the front door was open.

He must have gotten caught.

That was the only explanation I could come up with for his disappearance.

Turns out, I was right.

As I watched, I saw Mr.

Gardiner pass in front of the window, carrying Leonard over his shoulder.

Leonard was frantically trying to free himself, but Mr.

Gardiner held firm, which I found surprising for a man who was supposed to be in his 70s.

At one point, I thought I could hear Leonard's cries for help.

Help!

Help, please!

Please!

Anyone!

Anyone, please help!

Help!

Please!

Help!

Part of me thought I should do something to help him.

But a much bigger part of me thought, you deserve this.

I honestly didn't think anything anything bad was going to happen.

I certainly didn't think Mr.

Gardiner was going to drop Leonard on the floor, grab hold of his head, and then violently twist it.

But that's exactly what happened.

In shock, I just stood there staring at Leonard's limp form lying on Mr.

Gardiner's carpet.

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

I thought I had just seen the worst thing in my life, but once again, I was wrong.

As I sat there, staring, paralyzed with shock, Mr.

Gardiner began to change.

His body stretched and distorted until his clothes ripped apart and fell off.

He continued to change until he no longer appeared human.

He was now just a mass of bulbous flesh with two long, spindly arms and legs.

and a mouth that took up most of his head.

It's the Halloween.

Mr.

Gardner is the Halloween.

I'd seen enough artists' renditions of the Halloween around town to know that I was looking at the real thing.

When Mr.

Gardner was done changing into the Halloween, he lifted Leonard's lifeless body by the feet and started shoving it into his mouth.

In less than two minutes, The body disappeared down the monster's throat.

I could feel the bile rising up the back of my throat, but I couldn't force myself to look away from the looks of it.

Mr.

Gardner was still hungry, because when he finished swallowing Leonard, he picked up the pillowcase full of stolen candy and dumped that into his mouth as well.

When he was done, he placed his hands on his distended belly and turned to look out the window.

Our eyes met.

Instinctively, I rolled away from the window, but I knew it was too late.

The Hollow Ween had seen me.

I was certain he was going to come across the street and eat me next because I discovered his secret.

That thought made me sick to my stomach.

I vomited onto the floor, then laid down and curled up into a ball as I continued to retch.

A few minutes later, the door to my room swung open.

I was certain it was the Halloween coming to eat me.

But it wasn't.

It was my mom.

She'd heard me throwing up and came to help.

She stroked my head.

Looks like someone's had a little too much candy.

I wanted to tell her that that wasn't why I was sick, but I couldn't get the words out.

Let's get you cleaned up.

She pulled me to my feet and guided me into the bathroom, where she helped me out of my dirty pajamas and wiped the puke off my face.

After she'd tucked me back into bed, I finally told her what I saw, but she completely dismissed me.

I think you just had a nightmare.

Mr.

Gardner isn't the Halloween.

The Halloween isn't real, but no buts about it.

It was just a dream.

That was the end of the conversation.

She didn't want to hear any more about it.

My mom let me stay home from school the next day, which I was thankful for because I didn't sleep at all the previous night.

When she called me down to the kitchen for breakfast that morning, I asked her if she'd seen Mr.

Gardiner.

No, I haven't.

Why do you ask?

I didn't respond.

Do you still think he's the Halloween?

Is that it?

No.

It was just a nightmare, honey.

You need to let it go.

I tried to do that.

I really did.

And I might have succeeded if it weren't for the surprise visitor who showed up at our house that afternoon.

Jacob, there's someone here to see you.

I walked to the top of the stairs and looked down at my mom.

Who is it?

One of your friends from school.

I raced down the stairs and opened the door, expecting to see Harrison or Antione, my two closest friends, standing there.

But it was was neither of them.

Instead, I found Leonard raising his hand in greeting.

Hi, Jacob.

Can you come out and play?

The third house on our travels belongs to author Riel Rosehill.

She always leaves candy for the kids, but she herself often steps out for the evening.

Like a lot of people, she finds the cemetery the place to be on Halloween night.

So does Alec.

His reasons are sentimental and rather melancholy.

Performing this tale are Jake Benson, James Cleveland, and Ash Millman.

So don't get choked up, even as you learn about strangling angels.

Our hangout is not as dead as usual.

With the cemetery gates left open after dark for All Hallows' Eve, a stream of people snakes between the headstones, lighting candles inside colorful glass lanterns and placing them on the graves, but only on tidy ones.

They don't venture beyond the mausoleum, to the old part of the cemetery, where the stones crumble and the ivy is strangling the angels.

Here, it remains dark.

That's why we chose this place.

Even though the cold bit through our jeans when we sat on the broken weed-eaten stone, we were invisible.

Drinking the beer we had smuggled in, we watched the candlelights of reds, oranges and purples flicker in the darkness, each marking some fucker less fortunate than ourselves decomposing below.

It made us feel more alive.

But I've not visited for a year.

and the moss has grown on the marble angel who holds the scales of justice over the headstone.

It has crept up and shrouded her whole face, like a bag pulled over her head.

Like it's trying to tell on us.

I've never come without Leslie, but it's been a year and it felt like the right thing to do.

I even brought a candle.

I don't have a coloured glass to shield the flame, but I put the naked candle on the grave and pull the cigarette lighter from my pocket.

The air cools as the candlewick takes the fire and in the dancing light, Leslie sits on the grave, wearing his outfit from last year's Halloween.

I wrap my arms around myself against the sudden chill.

My words float in a white cloud.

Your costume gives me the creeps.

He rolls his head to the side, neck limp as he turns his shoulders my way, his whole body twisting into a question mark.

I had liked it.

Last year.

I liked it all.

The way I closed my fingers on the rope around Leslie's neck and pulled, tightening the noose.

The way he made a small noise, some startled moan that made me want to hold on and pull harder, repeating the motion a few more times, holding his breath hostage.

The way I let the rope slack.

It's functional.

He drew a deep breath under the potato sack on his head and slumped against the headstone.

A hanged man in ripped jeans.

Where's your costume?

I lifted the black executioner's hood in my lap, pulled it over my head, and spread my arms.

Here.

He let his head hang to one side.

Is that all?

I shrugged and tugged the end of his rope, making him jolt again.

It matches.

I like this detail.

Leslie squirmed as I pulled it tight and released, slow and steady, letting him take a breath and stealing it away again and again

and again.

And he let me.

His hands were free, but he didn't use them.

Not until I forgot to let go.

Only then did he put his hands over mine.

Something hot stirred in me.

I wanted to see his face.

Alec!

He could barely say my name.

Letting go of the rope, I yanked the sack off his head.

Leslie gasped, his chest heaving.

He didn't say I shouldn't have done it, though.

And that's what I liked about Leslie.

He would never say no to me.

Whatever stupid shit I wanted to do, we did it.

Be it drinking in the cemetery or smoking weed and eating pizza in a hot bubble bath where anything goes, he was in.

I thought it was a good thing, him doing everything I wanted to do.

Until what I wanted to do was Haley.

Sorry, she'd texted as I'd watched Leslie let her in his house across the street.

It's girls night out.

I'm helping my nan, Leslie had typed, as I'd stalked him sipping wine with Haley through the window of the thirsty bastard.

He'd never told me about any of it.

I pulled the hood off my head and looked into his ferret face.

His watery eyes held my gaze, seemingly trusting, but hiding a truth behind.

I'd never asked him face to face, and I was going to give him one chance, one way out.

Just one.

Say, Les,

is there something you want to tell me?

He gave me a sheepish smile.

What?

That wasn't the confession I needed, but so be it.

I forced the smile and wrapped the rope around my hand.

Let's do it one more time.

His eyes grew wide for a moment before he blinked and cast them down.

Um

okay.

And I want you to look at me.

I wondered as he soon dug his nails into my hands if he'd actually told the truth by claiming he enjoyed this, or if in a twisted way, he viewed this as a way to repent.

Mess, you're late.

Haley had greeted me in a white mini-dress, smeared with fake blood.

I let my head roll to the side and drooped limp in the brown potato sack fastened around my neck.

I guess hanged men don't talk.

She handed me a glass of punch.

I grinned under the sack as I took the drink, my hands covered in small, curved cuts.

Haley didn't notice.

Everybody was covered in blood that night.

Inside, witches, goths, and vampires were scraping the bottom of the punch bowl.

Haley was unsteady, too.

Let's do shots.

She turned towards the kitchen, but I caught her wrist and nodded at the stairs.

They had a balcony, and she led me there, wrapping her arms around my neck, pressing herself close.

I took my chance to run my hands over her body, too distracted to notice what she was getting up to.

The sack was pulled off my head.

Haley gasped, and I tried to soften her with a smile.

Surprise?

She screamed.

She doesn't even haunt me.

I tell Leslie's ghost, who was stacking stones in the rusting scales held by the stone angel.

Maybe she knew I didn't mean to push her over the railing.

But you, I did mean that.

But is it actually you?

Or is it me losing it?

I take a swig of my beer.

His head rolls onto his chest, then back over his shoulder.

He never talks anymore.

He appears whenever I'm somewhere I've been with him before.

Whenever I'm doing something we've done together.

And we used to do everything together.

He's in my bed, in the bathtub, on the bus, on the sofa.

He's at the park, at the bar, watching.

Always

watching.

And I can't even see his face, only on the missing person posters around town.

He didn't even die wearing that stupid sack.

I grab for it, but my hand goes through him like he's not even there.

Maybe he isn't.

I'm not sure what would be worse.

Miss hanging out.

His hand stops mid-air over the scales.

With hindsight, I'd rather you lie to me but still be here.

I don't even miss Haley.

It was just the betrayal.

But now?

I don't care if you two were both back.

I wouldn't care, you know?

It would just be nice as you were...

Sticking around if you fucking bothered to talk to me.

I'm sorry, alright?

Can we hang?

Leslie turns to me.

His hands loosen the rope around his neck and he takes it off, potato sack and all.

His skin is all translucent blue, his bulging eyes contoured with dark circles.

His head is still cocked to one side, and he gives me a smile that stretches too wide for his mouth.

He hooks the rope around my neck.

We can hang.

The fourth house on the street belongs to author L.P.

Hernandez.

He always loves watching the little kids who are on their very first Halloween hunt for candy, often accompanied by older siblings.

And there's something special about an older brother taking his kid's sister trick-or-treating for the first time, especially when the brother has a rather special way of doing things.

Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Matthew Bradford, Jesse Cornett, and Mike Delgadio.

So hold their hands and watch out for the little ones.

After all, accidents happen.

You can be anything on Halloween.

A ghost or

a pirate?

Something scary or fun.

It's my favorite holiday.

Except I'd be lying about that come Christmas Eve.

Thinking about all the presents in Santa's sack and all the space under the tree.

It's my favorite holiday.

Except during December.

I think that's about right.

Ma thought it was silly.

A boy my size getting excited to tromp around the neighborhood with a dirty pillowcase begging for candy.

I didn't have no saying how big I was.

And a pillowcase could hold more than one of them plastic pumpkin pails anyway.

Ma thought a lot of my ideas were silly.

And I don't think she liked that I was so big for a boy who just added teen to his number.

She said I looked like dad.

But not in a way that made it seem she was happy about it.

I don't know what he looks like.

So I don't know if it's a good or bad thing myself.

Her husband Wayne got a new look in his eye lately.

Used to be he could stand over me when he was trying to make a point.

Didn't say nothing usually.

Just let that beer gut touch my cheek with his fist tight like he was trying to squeeze water out of granite.

It's different now.

He gives me the same look.

Makes the same fists.

But from across the room.

That's okay.

I like him better across the room.

My little sister, Darcy,

that's Ma and Wayne's daughter together, so I guess she's half.

She's been walking for about six months.

Not good enough for trick-or-treating.

She still falls some, but I wanted to take her with me still.

I'm big as a man now, even if I don't feel like one.

I knew this Halloween might be my last time trick-or-treating, and I wanted to do it with Darcy.

Ma and I thought about it something awful.

She said, Darcy was too small, and I was too big.

Her little steps couldn't keep up with mine.

She said, remember what happened to Sophia?

When I told her, that was an accident, like I do every time.

Sometimes I think Ma doesn't like me.

She loves me.

I know that like I know what her Snickers taste like before I bite it, but I don't think she likes me.

When she holds Darcy, she looks...

I guess I don't know the word for it because I've never experienced it myself.

It seems nice, though.

I bet it's nice to be looked at like that.

Ma stopped arguing with me, oh,

I guess a couple of days ago.

I don't know if I won.

I just know she stopped talking about it, giving me the quiet treatment or whatever that's called.

I figured if she ain't saying no,

that means it's okay.

Me and Darcy trick-or-treating together for the first and last time.

I'll probably take her next year, but I'll be too old for candy myself.

I was so excited when Ma stopped saying no.

I got right to work on our costumes.

Well, I guess Darcy's ain't so much a costume, it's just messing up her baby clothes some, scuffing them, and tearing little holes here and there.

Come here, baby girl,

I say and lift her out of her crib.

Ma's right next to us in the rocking chair, giving me the quiet treatment.

You could say no more ways than with your mouth.

I know that for sure.

But if it ain't said,

I'm not changing my plans.

Darcy's clothes are already a little messed up.

Like she might have not liked the last thing Ma fed her.

It's kind of smelly, but it's got the look I'm going for.

Green and black like camel paint on her shirt and some brown crusted on her mouth.

I find a couple loose threads and tug them.

I think it looks okay now.

In you go.

I pull her arms through the holes in the baby backpack thing.

Ma has a word for it, but...

It's not one that can stay in my head long.

I walk us to the bathroom, or try to.

I'm so excited I get lost in my own house.

Takes two wrong doors to find the right one.

Look at us,

I say to the mirror.

My zombie makeup is perfect.

It's just like the movies.

I wop a bit on my thumb and smear it on Darcy's cheeks.

They feel like pizza dough that got left out too long.

Right under my nose, she doesn't smell so good.

But I can't change a diaper.

I'm not allowed.

And Ma ain't gonna help me do it.

It'll be a nice surprise for when we get back.

Here you go, Ma.

A nice full diaper.

Probably all smeared and such.

In the mirror, I can see a window to the outside behind me.

It's not dark, but dark enough for trick-or-treating.

I'm so excited.

My belly feels like it's got spiders in it.

Sophia used to eat spiders.

I remember that.

Sometimes she just bat them around a bit, stab a few legs off.

Does that make her bad?

Just because she hurt a few bugs?

Does it, Ma?

I miss Sophia.

Zombie dad and zombie daughter.

Look at us.

Darcy isn't excited, and that's okay.

She won't make a memory of tonight.

I'll have to tell her about it when we're older.

I take another wrong turn looking for my bedroom, but the pillowcase in Ma's room works just as good as mine.

It'll probably break her out of her quiet treatment when she sees I used it for candy.

I'm going, Ma!

I clomp down the stairs, holding Darcy's head to my chest.

Ain't seen Wayne in I don't know how long, but he's not in my path to the front door.

He and Ma are probably fighting, which I like better than Ma pretending to love him.

The way she touches him, like I don't notice, pinches and such.

I see it, Ma.

I see what you are.

I step outside and fill my chest with smoke and cider.

I don't know if that's what I'm smelling exactly, but it's good.

Better than Darcy's diaper.

There's a kid on the sidewalk across the street swinging pumpkin pails.

I want to run to show off my costume, but I can't with Darcy.

Gotta keep her head from moving too much.

Remember Sophia?

That's what Ma would say if she wasn't giving me the quiet treatment.

Of course I remember her ma

Accidents happen.

Instead,

I walk fast.

One thing I don't like about Halloween is how most folks don't let you trick or treat no more.

They just leave the candy outside in a bucket or a bowl, usually with a sign saying, take just one.

I always obey the sign.

It's easy to obey something that's written down.

It's tougher when it's just me and my own head.

Three houses in a row with just a bowl outside.

One of them was empty.

And I knew it had to be the bad kids doing it.

Because trick-or-treating just started.

I hope they get caught.

I hope they get in trouble for it.

Bad kids don't deserve a fun Halloween.

That's what Ma says.

Remember what happened to Bella?

Not really, if I'm telling the truth about it.

There's a person.

I say to Darcy as I cut through the yard to the next house.

The lady's just about to close the door as a bunch of little kids rush back to their parents on the sidewalk.

The door shuts before I get there, and that's okay.

It feels more like Halloween when you have to knock.

I don't try to be loud,

but it happens sometimes being so big.

I take a step back.

Oh, I can't wait.

Them spiders are crawling all over themselves in my gut.

The lady opens the door, and her eyes are looking too low.

Like she's expecting kids half my size.

Trick-or-treat!

She jolts, and the candy in the bowl jumps with her.

A couple pieces fall on the floor like teeth.

No,

not like teeth.

Why did I think that?

Her face!

Look at her face!

She looks scared for real.

Like Ma does when we get to squabbling and I use my outside voice.

She shrinks a bit, like she's trying to hide behind the door.

I hold the pillowcase out.

It's a joke, but she doesn't laugh.

She's looking at Darcy like she's a rattlesnake instead of a baby.

Like she might get bit.

She tries to close the door, but it bounces off my knuckles.

Trick-or-treat!

I try again.

She looks behind.

I can see a picture in the hallway.

A man and two kids about halfway in age between me and Darcy.

I bet they're out trick-or-treating right now.

I bet she's alone.

She starts to speak, but the words take a wrong turn.

Her hair's not the same color,

and her face is a little rounder.

But she looks like Ma.

Maybe a little.

Maybe it's just the way her eyes are all big and her mouth is open like her heart might jump out of it.

I wonder if she touches her husband like Ma does with Wang.

Maybe they're the same like that, too.

She grabs a handful of candy and throws it at the pillowcase.

Some makes it inside.

Some falls on the patio like teeth.

No,

not teeth.

I bend down to pick them up, forgetting about Darcy.

But that's okay.

She can sleep through anything.

The door slams shut and the porch lot goes out.

That's funny.

She had plenty of candy in her bowl.

Lots of people are like that, Darcy.

You probably won't have to worry about it because you're so cute and small.

People like cute and small things.

I stand on the porch for a moment.

It's not the Halloween I was dreaming about.

Not like Halloween from when I was small.

I had to fight with Bon Wayne about it.

Maybe that's why Wayne left.

I guess that's a good thing at least.

There aren't many people answering doors, and the one that did was so scared I almost felt bad.

The kids don't seem to know any better.

They're still running around like ants on a griddle.

Maybe it's just about candy for them.

I shake my head.

It's my last Halloween.

Last time trick-or-treating at least.

I head back out thinking about how heavy my pillowcase will be by the end of the night.

Maybe I could use it as a pillow.

No.

I don't think that would work.

I think the chocolate would meld or...

Maybe I'd wake up at night and eat some.

Ma says no candy after I brush my teeth.

That's fine, Ma.

I just won't brush them.

I hold my arms out and groan as a group of princesses and fairies comes toward me.

They giggle and scream, and I can't help smiling too.

A couple of their dads are right behind them, sipping beers.

Not the kind Wayne used to drink.

They both give me a nod, and I nod back.

That feels better.

Halloween is supposed to be fun.

Right, Ma?

I tried to tell Ma I'd be careful with Darcy.

I'd be safe.

Remember what happened to Mr.

Bill?

How How do you know, Ma?

You weren't there.

There's a group of teen boys coming at me now.

One's wearing a football costume, which

isn't really even a costume.

The others are just carrying masks.

I don't like teen boys.

Never have.

They do mean things on purpose instead of on accident.

Make fun of someone just for being big.

We don't say nothing to each other.

They walk off the sidewalk onto the grass, but I hear him a few seconds after.

I want to turn around and get him.

It'd be easy to do.

Snatch him up and squeeze like how Wayne squeezes his fists.

Like how I did when Mr.

Bill peed on my bed.

But that was an accident.

And I got Darcy with me.

I reach to lift her head, and it feels like I'm touching a caterpillar.

It's flies.

They must like the throw-up on her chin.

Shoot!

There's an old man sitting in his driveway up ahead.

I could see he's not giving out the good candy.

But it would be mean to walk past and not take it.

I wave a hand in front of Darcy's face to keep the flies away as I walk over to him.

Trick-or-treat!

I say, making my voice a bit higher so maybe I won't spook him.

He holds out a Tootsie roll.

Just one.

His eyes are kind of foggy.

Kind of cloudy like Mr.

Bill's were.

Or was that Bella?

I don't think he could see too good, so I hold the pillowcase right up under his hand.

The Tootsie Roll falls and he smiles.

I'm glad I didn't skip him.

You have a good night,

I say,

and he taps his finger to his forehead.

Two more houses with just bowls out front.

At least the candy's good.

Shoot!

The flies really like to throw up on Darcy's face.

I guess it kind of makes her look more like a zombie, but I don't think flies are good for babies.

There's more kids out now.

It's easier to blend in when there's a bunch of them together.

The parents are all staring at their phones or drinking out of those metal cups with the lids.

I don't think it's orange juice by how big they're smiling.

There's a whole bunch of kids running around.

Feels nice to blend in.

See, Darcy, this is what Halloween's about.

Dressing up and having fun.

Filling your pillowcase up with enough candy to last till Christmas.

I still say trick-or-treat, even if I'm in a big group.

Gotta teach Darcy the right way.

I'm at a house with lots of decorations and spooky music.

There's fog coming from somewhere and a green light in it.

Now this is Halloween.

I bet they give out good candy.

A little girl turns around too quick and bumps into me.

She falls and her candy scatters over the concrete like teeth.

Darcy sleeps right through it.

Good girl Darcy.

Not like Bella.

Sorry about that.

The kids looking at my hand meant to lift her up and then at Darcy.

Her eyes move over to the side and I turn to see what grabbed her attention.

There's red and blue lights.

A police car parks next to a house with its lights out.

I think not celebrating Halloween should be against the law too, Mr.

Copman.

I help the girl up and she scoots away without picking up the candy that spilled out of her pail.

Trick-or-treat!

I say using my high voice again.

It's a bit darker now, and the light in the fog turns my skin green.

Happy Halloween, brother!

He's dressed like a zombie, too.

And I was right.

They give out the good candy.

A full-size Snickers, and I know just what it'll taste like.

I guess the day isn't ruined after all.

I like it better in the dark, and I can see lots of people handing out candy down the street.

I start heading that way, walking fast to catch up with the group I was with.

One of the dads on the sidewalk has a big gut like Wayne used to.

I wonder if he bumps his kids with it to make a point.

I wonder what his teeth would sound like falling on the concrete.

The further away from home I walk, the better it gets.

In about 15 minutes, it's all the the way dark and it makes the spooky houses stand out more.

I don't waste time with the bowls and buckets on porches.

There probably ain't no candy in them anyway.

The bad kids had too much time.

That's not what Halloween's about, after all.

It's about spooking people, and not just because you're big as a man.

I didn't have no saying how big I was, Ma.

I came from you, didn't I?

You made me this way.

Maybe it ain't a bad thing if Ma keeps giving me the quiet treatment.

Sometimes she doesn't know when to shut up.

The pillowcase feels like it's full of bricks after an hour.

I should have just waited till it was dark out, because people treat me better in the dark.

They think I'm just a good dad taking his little girl out trick-or-treating.

Well,

that's not exactly true.

But we can pretend, can't we, Darcy?

Maybe I could be a dad again next year.

I walk for a while, not really paying attention to where I'm heading.

Once the porch lights start going off, I'm pretty lost.

The houses seem the same out here.

The same parts, just rearranged to make them look different.

My feet hurt too.

Wayne's shoes feel tight on all sides.

I head back in what I think is the right direction.

There's a few spooky yards I'll know for sure when I see them.

It's mostly dads following behind their tired kids now.

They nod or tilt a beer can at me, and I nod back.

I wonder if I've ever seen my real dad before and not known it.

Maybe he'd look at me the way Ma looks at Darcy.

Like I'm something to be proud of.

Like,

it's okay if I make mistakes, because we can always get a new cat.

They're all over the place.

You don't even have to buy one.

My socks feel wet.

And I don't know if it's sweat or blood because they hurt so bad.

Sorry about the boots, Wayne.

You weren't around to ask if it was okay.

What do you think, Darcy?

A good first Halloween?

I don't think you can eat the candy yet.

I'll eat it for you.

I comb her hair and brush the flies off her face.

Darcy can sleep through anything.

Not like shadow.

It must be nice to be a baby.

You're carried everywhere.

People bring you food when you cry.

You can use the toilet in your pants, even.

Is it a toilet if it's in your pants?

I guess I don't know the right words for it.

I don't remember being a baby.

Seems like I've been big forever.

The sidewalks are empty except for teenagers that are probably waiting until it's midnight to do something awful.

Maybe after I put Darcy in her crib, I'll come back out and do something awful to them before they get the chance.

Finally, I see the spooky yard with the green light.

Next time, I need to remember the numbers on the houses.

I head to my house, but stop.

There's a humming sound somewhere.

Like someone far away is out with a weed whacker.

But it's too dark for that.

There's no one on this street.

Not even teenagers.

Do you hear that, Darcy?

I move to comb her hair, but then figure out where the humming sound's coming from.

Ew.

There's so many flies, it's like fur.

Like Mr.

Bill, when I was running my fingers through his hair, trying to tell him he was okay.

I give her head a thump, and the flies buzz off, all mad I spoiled their dinner.

It's okay,

Darcy can sleep through anything.

All right, let's get you back inside, Darcy.

I bet Ma's been worried sick about you.

I dropped my treasure just inside the front door.

The house is still.

A little chirp from a smoke detector begging for its batteries to be replaced.

Isn't that the man's job, Wayne?

Or whatever your name is.

I flip on lights as I navigate through the house.

The houses are the same, after all, just the parts rearranged.

And there have been too many to remember.

The stairs squeak like mice under my feet.

I don't need to have memorized my way to the baby room.

I can smell my way there just fine.

At the head of the stairs, I catch a glimpse of myself in the darkened bathroom mirror.

Just the crown of Darcy's head is visible.

Her arms and legs are slack like a rubber doll.

Look at us.

I push her forehead back a little.

My finger leaves a divot.

The skin isn't quite sure what it's supposed to do in its current state.

That's so interesting.

Reminds me of Bella.

Much more interesting when she stopped fighting.

Well,

time to get you to bed.

You could be anything on Halloween.

That goes for the woman in the rocking chair as well.

Tonight,

she is my mother giving me the quiet treatment.

I tug Darcy, or whatever her name is, free.

And it feels like her skin might slough off the bones.

There you go.

I deposit her in in her mother's stiffened arms.

There are still a few flies on her face, exploring moisture where they can find it.

One settles on her mother's breast.

A single drop of yellowed milk frozen on the nipple like pudding.

I bet that's a treat for a fly.

Happy Halloween!

I say in my high voice, my

don't scare the neighbors voice.

The cop car had me worried, but it's a pretty ridiculous story to convey.

A giant man dressed like a zombie with a dead baby going trick-or-treating?

It's Halloween, after all.

It was probably just a prop or a doll.

She would have struggled to convince them otherwise.

Sometimes women just know.

Intuition.

My mother added.

She understood the connection between a missing cat and a locked bedroom door.

A shovel not in its usual place in the garage.

So why was there a Bella after Sophia?

A Mr.

Bill after Bella?

Feed the monster so he doesn't go hungry.

That's what Wayne said.

I closed the door behind me.

It's been a long day.

A long couple of days, actually.

I'm not hungry anymore.

I'm ready to go home.

Just have to figure out where that'll be.

Downstairs, I open the door to the basement.

There's a single bowl burning in the middle of the room.

I can only see an arm in its light.

A cold hand with fingers curled into a fist.

Beside it, a few teeth catch the light.

My knuckles hurt, remembering.

Happy Halloween, Wayne.

I know that's not his name.

I saw it on the mail on the kitchen table.

To me, he is Wayne.

The next one will be as well.

I remember overhearing a conversation between Wayne and my mother.

He whispered in such a way it was louder than talking.

Yes, I was eavesdropping, but I probably could have heard it across the house.

It's not safe.

You know it's not.

We have to find a place for him, or he's going to do it to her, too.

My mother's voice didn't carry as far.

When it was quiet, I knew she was speaking.

We have a chance to be a family.

A real family.

So,

it wasn't a real family with me in it.

Well, I had a few thoughts about that, Wayne.

And you were right.

It wasn't safe.

There is one thing left to do before I leave.

I pop the can's lid and hear the tinkling of the bell on its collar.

Cats are so interesting.

It could have been in the room with me and Wayne, this version of Wayne, when I broke the teeth out of his mouth.

And

still a hint of fish in the air, and it comes running.

What's your name?

I am careful.

Scooping the cat into my arms after it has eaten its fill.

Accidents happen after all.

Especially the cute, small things.

I think you look like a Darcy.

You could be anything on Halloween.

A ghost?

Or a pirate?

A teenager.

a son,

a big brother.

I wonder what I'll be next year.

Ah, we're already at our fifth house.

This one home to author Beth Carpenter.

I don't know why, but some kids are afraid to visit this house.

Beth is nice and always has good candy.

But you know how kids spread silly rumors, right?

I mean, it's not like there's a a monster in the house or anything.

Performing this tale are David Alt and Penny Scott Andrews.

So ignore what the kids say.

I'm pretty sure there's no reason to fear Mr.

Spindles.

I've been dying for a few years now, and I look it.

I used to be a big man with a big presence, 6'5 and 275 pounds.

Craggy, a little overly amiable to make sure no one got intimidated.

It was a sudden weight loss that alerted me to my illness.

The doctors did what they could, but the flesh kept melting off me no matter what we tried.

So fast, I stopped recognizing myself seemingly between one day and the next.

Now I'm a tower of bone and sagging grey skin, an uninspired horror movie monster, the kind that's been done to death on screen.

No pun intended.

I get out of breath going up the stairs.

I don't have the stamina to get through a shower without sitting down.

I'm cold all the time.

I'd be able to pick out my own skull out of a skeleton lineup.

I'm only 49.

Might have another year left, although I hate to think what that year will make of me.

I already look like a corpse waiting around for the order on extra-large coffins to finally be filled.

I've made my peace with things, more or less.

It's been a good life.

Good friends.

Sunny days.

I've traveled.

I've given some help to those who needed it.

It's enough, I think.

Most days, it seems like enough.

Just one thing keeps jabbing away at my attempt at at acceptance, one sharp-edged little thing.

It should be little, anyway.

I live on the same road as a middle school, and a lot of the kids who go to school there pass my house on their commute.

When turn time started up again in September, there was the first bite of the lemon.

They saw me, sometimes, through the windows at the front of the house, just happened to glance in as they were passing.

And when they did, they were terrified, gawking, running off, panicked voices scratching their way under my door.

Whenever it happened, I couldn't help but step backwards, duck out of view, which probably just made the reactions worse.

I wasn't sure what to do.

For a while, I tried to stay away from the front windows at the start and the end of the school day,

but keeping house on my own means seizing on the moments I feel strong enough to be active, and my strength ebbed and flowed without reference to the convenience of the kids outside.

They kept on seeing me.

They kept reacting like I was the horror I knew I looked like, an ambassador for death, here a little too early for Halloween.

So I just hoped that the problem would pass on its own.

They'd get used to me, or their parents would explain some of the facts of life to them.

People come in all shapes and sizes.

Can't judge a book by its cover.

A dozen platitudes are on hand to paper over the awkwardness of guiding children through the ugly bits of mortality.

I'm still shocked every time I look in the mirror, but frankly I have more stake in the matter than anyone else does.

And it's not a great feeling, terrifying every child who spots you.

I was really hoping they'd work through it somehow.

I'm a normal guy, boring even.

I felt like that should show through to anyone really looking.

I guess that's not how it goes.

It didn't get better.

It got stranger, I suppose.

They escalated.

First it was the groups hanging around my house after school finished.

All the kids who lived close enough to walk to school unaccompanied standing in a semicircle around my driveway, staring into the house.

Actual Halloween decorations started going up, all kid-friendly given our location, but the witches and tombstones and cartoonish skeletons got ignored.

I was the monster they wanted to see.

When they spotted me, they'd scatter, but they always came back.

Then the little clusters of rubberneckers sprouted teenagers who started acting as lieutenants.

They held up their phones to film through my windows.

They sent the smaller kids forward to ring my doorbell.

Every day, more or less, I get this.

I try to ignore it, but sometimes I get angry and upset enough that that it almost feels like having energy.

On those days, I haul myself over to the door.

I throw it open.

They've already run away.

Monsters grin back at me from the lawn of the neighbor across the street, gothic garden gnomes, sneering pumpkins.

Leave me alone, I shout, my voice sounding quavering and ancient.

No answer.

The trek back to my armchair feels a thousand miles long.

A little while later, the ringing starts back up.

Last week, when I slammed the door open, there was a severe-looking woman in front of it.

She'd rung several times, and she faced me with the coldly irritated expression which froze on her face as she took my condition in.

We stood for a moment, regarding each other in silence.

I apologize, Mr.

Winder, John Winder.

Can I help you?

Mr.

Winder, my name is Sophia Grimshaw.

This is a little...

I mean to say

this is an unusual situation.

I work with a local school.

Oh, I said, sagging against the doorframe as if I wanted to block her out.

But what I said was...

You'd better come in.

She smiled at me.

The awkwardness of it warmed warmed to her.

She was all starch and polished, but she grinned like someone giving dentures a trial ride.

It made her seem human.

You might expect me to be less judgmental than that given my own situation, but like I said, at the end of the day, I'm just some guy.

Anyway, we got settled in my living room.

I hinted round the edges of my diagnosis.

I apologized for being a bad host, couldn't offer drinks, biscuits, or take a coat.

She steepled her fingers.

I'm very sorry to bother you, Mr.

Winder.

And more sorry if our students have been doing so.

This is not something we have a process for, I'm afraid.

There have been

some

very silly rumors going about between the children about

this house.

It was becoming disruptive, so I came here to investigate.

I wasn't expecting.

I thought, perhaps, it had all been made up by one of the older students.

Or perhaps that whoever lived here had...

She cut off, almost wincing.

Had been taunting the kids with a Halloween prop or something.

Her wince fully materialized then.

It's okay.

I mean, it's okay you thought that.

It's the right time of year.

I'm glad you got in touch.

She nodded.

I knew I shouldn't ask the question burning at the back of my throat, but I did anyway.

All my self-control gets spent on not falling over these days.

What are they saying?

What are the rumors about?

She looked at me for an elastic second.

They call you Mr.

Spindles.

Or rather, they call the invented person loosely inspired by you, that.

Her fingers slid from their dignified steeple and twisted against each other.

The usual sort of thing.

Scary stories about something they don't understand.

It was terrible, but for a moment I almost wanted to laugh.

Mr.

Spindles eats children, that sort of thing.

I'm a vegetarian, actually.

People used to be surprised I could sustain my bulk on rabbit food.

These days, I mostly live off soup.

Well, obviously, there's no basis.

Now I'm armed with some of the facts.

I'm sure we'll be able to cut this off.

Of course, I won't discuss your personal medical situation, but

people come in all shapes and sizes.

You can't judge a book by its cover.

Quite.

I told her a little about my recent experiences with the kids.

She looked horrified in her own stately way, which kept the emotion mainly confined to the eyebrows.

Told me she'd make sure the harassment stopped at once.

She was confident enough that I mostly believed her.

But the part of me which critiqued the logic of horror movies was a little indignant.

I do have one other question.

Don't know if you'll know the answer, if the kids have even talked about it.

If they're so scared of me, why do they keep trying to get my attention?

Why not stay away?

She poked her glasses up her nose.

Ah,

well,

some of it is the usual sort of dares and challenges you get amongst children.

But also,

among the silly rumors I investigated, there was one which said that this Mr.

Spindle's character primarily seeks out those who show cowardice.

I had one boy telling me very solemnly that if you survived getting a clear view of his face before Halloween, you were safe.

But otherwise, he would come for you.

I already called his parents, but I'll have to do so again and tell them he's been part of an organized effort to torment a neighbor.

She sniffed.

Stupid child.

Sounds like they've got a whole mythology.

I wasn't sure how to feel.

Hurt.

Humiliated.

A little impressed at how far they'd taken it.

If they just put their imaginations to productive use, we'd have some creative geniuses.

I'm so sorry, Mr.

Winder.

It's okay.

At least it seemed like it had a deadline.

Halloween.

How typical.

She shook my hand on her way out, firm and warm.

I spent the rest of the day dozing in my chair, ignoring the doorbell.

I was getting better at pretending not to hear it, and it was easier now I had the reason to believe that my days of practice were coming to an end.

To her credit, it did stop

for a few days.

Long enough to get my hopes up that Mr.

Spindles had returned whence he came and would haunt me no more.

My waking hours were peaceful.

I did have some odd dreams about jerking upright in the night, squinting into the dark through the neon Halloween orange which had spilled in between my curtains, and seeing a figure, very tall, very thin, standing at the window as the headlights of a passing car briefly rendered it into a dramatic silhouette.

It resembled me,

sort of.

It was taller, though, and it was thinner.

Those things shouldn't have been frightening.

People get sick.

People come in all kinds of shapes.

I guess we just get scared, looking at something which feels like a parody of ourselves.

I guess we get scared if something reminds us of the reality of death.

And whatever it looked like, it shouldn't have been in my room, peering so intently through the windowpane as the darkness folded back down around us.

Anyway,

they were just dreams.

I couldn't fit much metacognition into them.

I woke uneasy and set myself to forgetting as quickly as possible.

The kids started up again yesterday,

the 30th of October.

Guess the fear of that deadline overtook whatever sense Ms.

Grimshaw talked into them.

They had even developed a new chant in their time away.

The jack-o'-lantern's candle kindles.

Come and face us, Mr.

Spindles.

We see your shape, your power dwindles.

We don't fear you, Mr.

Spindles.

First time anyone's written me poetry, so that was nice.

I was having a flare-up all that day, though, so I just stayed where I was and let them tire themselves out.

Stared blankly at nothing and shook.

Ignored the orange sheen on my walls.

Thought about the good bits of my life, the old insulating joys.

Today's been better.

Today I was strong enough to drag my lightest chair through the hallway to just inside the front door so I could sit with a book and wait for the ringing to start.

I thought of sitting outside, but it rained most of the day, only clearing up when dusk started to fall.

So here I am.

I've caught a few of them, stuck my head around the door as soon as they ring and said, Can I help you?

in my most cheerfully polite voice.

Feel a little guilty about the way they've screamed and scurried off, but apparently letting them see me is doing them a favor, and each of them has looked more embarrassed than scared by the time they've exited my front gate

those were the vanguard there's a crowd of kids building outside now starting up the chant there's enough out there and they sound fierce enough that i'm a little worried about opening the door to them

still

i'm a stubborn bastard at heart and i want to confront them I want to make them realize the cost of their shenanigans.

I guess I want to assert my humanity, scary or not.

Maybe if I offer them some sweets, I do have some old fun-sized chocolates somewhere, teetering on the edge of out of date.

There's not much trick-or-treating in this area, but it might still work as an appeal to tradition.

Everyone likes free sweets.

I trudge through to my kitchen.

The sound of kids calling for my doppelganger stays faint just at the threshold of Audible as I fish out old packets of chocolate buttons, sour candy I didn't know I still had, and slightly dubiously licorice.

I pile them into my biggest bowl, decide they stack high enough, and return to my chair by the door.

There's a cold sweat on the back of my neck.

Just this amount of standing has worn me out.

A little longer, I tell myself.

The doorbell rings.

As soon as it stops, I hear a high, nervous giggle just on the other side of the door.

It occurs to me that even though they've gone this far, regardless of how immersive whatever story they're telling themselves is, deep down they don't really believe there's a monster here.

Or maybe it's just that most young people are sure they're immortal.

I was at their age.

I throw the door open with a touch more force than necessary.

I shove the bowl out towards the child's sternum.

Her gaze fixes on the sweets, then slides slowly up to my face.

I see her eyes widen, her cheeks start to blanche, her jaw start to slacken, her eyes track higher still.

Happy Halloween, I say, and give the bowl a jiggle so the sweets slap off the sides.

She screams.

It's a surprisingly soft scream for how totally the making of it commands her body.

Her shoulders hunch in, her neck stiffens, her mouth gapes.

But the sound which emerges is shrill and breathy.

It cracks in the middle as she turns to run away from me.

Hey!

I'm alarmed myself.

I was expecting a reaction.

Fear, definitely, even panic.

It's just that I was also expecting it to start to fade the moment the reality of me stepped out into the orange light.

I'm wearing pajamas and a fuzzy purple dressing gown for shit's sake.

I can tell that the anticipated relief/slash letdown held true for the rest of the crowd as they start to scatter and then slow down, double-taking at me, absorbing the mundane, boring facts of the matter.

A middle-aged dying man with a bowl of almost expired sweets shivering in the evening cold.

It's not true for the girl, though.

She bolts away without glancing back, feet skimming over the gravel of my driveway, then past the gate, then through the half-dispersed crowd, then into the road

screaming all the way never stopping to look

she doesn't see the car before it hits her

i feel the crunch of the collision in my teeth see the other kids register it in a ripple heads turning silence falling

The car was going maybe 30.

It's dark.

30 is often survivable.

The driver would have seen the assembled children on on the pavement, but wouldn't have expected one to run out.

Hit the brakes too late.

30s often survivable.

The girl seems small for her age, maybe 15, but bird-boned, frail.

They're tougher than they look sometimes.

30s often survivable.

All of this is going through my head as I stumble forwards along with the clamour of guilt.

It's my fault.

It is.

What did I think would happen?

Not this.

It never even occurred to me.

We don't fear you, Mr.

Spindles.

She's up on the bonnet.

The window glass is cracked.

There's some red splattered across it, spread in a bright film through which I can see the driver frozen at the wheel.

Ordinary looking, brown moustache, wearing business casual.

He wasn't expecting to be made a monster either.

Shit.

Her eyes are open, 30s often survivable.

There's...

Blood drooling out her mouth.

She bit her tongue.

It's my fault.

We're surrounded by decorative grotesqueries.

Plastic plastic zombies emerging from lawns, giant spiders, fake headstones.

She's so small.

I fumble for my phone in my dressing gown pocket.

Time blurs a little.

I'm cold all the time, but when I take her wrist to check for a pulse, the call handler's voice buzzing in my ear.

Her skin is even colder.

My fingers are numb where they touch her.

I can't feel anything.

I step away, let the crying driver try.

I only look up and around at the sound of sirens.

Some of the kids seem to have run off.

A lot of them are just standing there like extras in a scene which hasn't started filming yet.

My door is still hanging open.

There's a man inside,

mostly in shadow.

So tall that everything over his smile vanishes past the top of the doorframe.

Thin.

Mottled grey skin sagging on bone.

Some people are that tall, some people are that thin.

His smile is small, polite,

satisfied.

Not monstrous.

Long arms.

I don't know if anyone's arms are that long.

He raises one in a little wave, then steps back out of sight.

all the way into the dark.

When the emergency services arrive, they're more interested in talking to the driver than to me.

One of the medical personnel flashes me a pitying look, tells me I should go back inside and sit down given my condition.

I nod.

Of course.

There's nothing I can do here.

Alive or dead, she's tucked away inside the ambulance.

Alive or dead?

I don't know.

It's heavy, the walk back to the house.

I feel like my old 275-pound pounds self is sitting on my shoulders, pushing me down into the earth.

The thing inside must be waiting, whatever he is.

Maybe he knows if the girl's alive.

We're afraid of things we don't understand.

Not just because the threat level is unknown.

We're afraid the things we thought we did know might suddenly be disproven.

Afraid that things which used to be safe might suddenly warp beyond all recognition.

Not just death being unmade.

I step inside.

There's a smudge of a child's blood on my right index finger.

A good life, good friends, sunny days.

None of it stacks up against that small red stain, though, does it?

Did she run from me?

Or was he there, right behind me?

Has he been there all along?

I need to know.

Before I die, I need to understand.

I'm afraid of what the time I have left will make of me otherwise.

Come and face me, Mr.

Spindles.

And I wait,

and I hope for an answer.

Well, we've reached the end of the street and stand before our final house.

Decorated in full Halloween regalia by author Charlie Davenport.

And you won't find a strip of toilet paper in his trees, nor any soap on his windows.

Eggs?

None thrown in anger here.

No, in this town, the kids know all about the Halloween curfew, so very little mischief takes place.

That is, until we learn about some teenagers who decided to break curfew

just once.

Performing this tale are Kyle Akers, Nicole Goodnight, Alante Barraquet, Dan Zapoula, Peter Lewis, Mike Delgadio, Jesse Cornette, Sarah Thomas, Jeff Clement, Matthew Bradford, Ashley McInelly, Ash Millman, and Atticus Jackson.

So be good to the people who live around you.

You want to be on the good side of the neighbors.

Last year, we'd met at the fountain in front of the library, just like always.

I had been dressed in bright blue overalls and a painter's cap mom had sewn a felt L on.

Stacy, dressed as Wednesday Adams, had sat down next to me while our parents chatted.

I felt an uncomfortable flush and had a sudden urge to throw my plunger as far away as possible.

Will showed up wearing red overalls, the Mario to my Luigi.

Kevin arrived in a bedsheet with hastily cut out eyes.

This year was supposed to be the bright, glorious moment we were old enough to go out on our own.

We'd talked about it for years, from what we would wear to the optimal routes, to when we might bail to check out the ghost walk or the bonfire.

I'd spent Countless hours daydreaming of firelight dancing across the features of Stacey's face.

Our hands clasped tightly together.

Then the drought had entered its 11th or 12th month, and the next brush fire seemed always one casually tossed cigarette away.

The fire marshal finally caved to the pressure and nixed the bonfire.

The volunteer fire department could no longer spare any personnel to run the ghost walk, as all members, including Will's dad, ate their evening meal with walkie on the table, right next to the salt and pepper.

The matchstick that broke the camel's back came in the form of two Muir Height burnouts, Noah Fowler and Gabe Morack.

They were caught trespassing on a construction site around midnight by Officer Jesse Knotts, the bane of Jaywalkers.

He had searched the two and found a pocket full of M80s between them.

The city council passed Ordinance 84-3,

citing concerns of an increased potential of vandalism and mischief.

We could still go out on our own, if we were home no later than 9 o'clock.

Or there was the Rotary Club's lock-in, costume contests and apple-bobbing until your folks picked you up.

Neither of those options had any real appeal.

We had just about settled on a double feature of Silence of the Lambs and the People Under the Stairs as our best options for that Halloween.

I was staring at the rented DVDs when mom called up the stairs and said that Will was on the phone.

Dude, Kevin just had the best idea.

I felt a sudden sinking in my stomach, like a drop ride at the fair.

We'd planned to meet up at the fountain, and like always, I was the first to arrive.

I sat on the lip of the basin, my legs swinging anxiously back and forth, regretting I didn't have any darker sneakers to wear with my black pants and hoodie.

I fiddled nervously with my PVC clown mask.

I almost didn't notice when the black-hooded witch sat down next to me.

Hey, Andy.

I saw worry in Stacey's watery gray eyes.

Even framed by a grotesquely wrinkled, wart-festooned mask, I recognized the same anxious energy that came over her before any quiz.

It was only when the grades were posted and she was confirmed to have an A or higher that the trapped panic would bleed away from her expression.

We'd both been good kids our whole lives.

Never talked back, cut class, or even got into any of the largely harmless trouble that was practically expected out of nowhere USA.

We weren't like Kevin, who had the unsupervised hours to plot and plan all kinds of mischief.

We weren't like Will, who as soon as baseball season was over, had nowhere to use the excess energy that coursed through his veins at all hours of the day.

I suspected it was the two of them who had smashed out every window in the old McKenney greenhouse.

I could picture Kevin reassuring Will that they were just going to test his arm by pitching the brick over it until the first one fell short and smashed the glass below.

The two had never involved me or Stacy in their illicit extracurriculars.

Until.

I was about to say we didn't have to do it.

We could tell the guys this wasn't for us.

Or you know what, we could just leave.

We didn't have to explain anything to them.

Maybe it was time to stop hanging out with Will and Kev altogether.

All of this was on my lips when I saw Stacy's gaze flick behind behind me.

I turned around and found a grim skeleton and a jack-o'-lantern with a wicked, wide, black grin staring back.

Both wore dark hoodies and held out orange plastic bags for us to take.

The bags were heavy and reeked just slightly of sulfur.

Kevin's voice echoed with excitement inside the paper-mâché pumpkin resting on his shoulders.

Y'all ready?

The plan was to blend in with all the little kids, trying to fit in their trick-or-treating before curfew and slowly make our way over to Mr.

O'Heerly's house.

Mr.

O'Heerly was owner of Epic Realty, town council chair, and primary author of Ordinance 84-3.

I was panicking as the towering skeletons above La Plata Avenue came into view.

Scores of kids waited under their hollowed gazes in lines that stretched around the block.

Jack-o'-lanterns on every doorstep flickered through through a prismatic kaleidoscope of color.

Choirs of rattling chains and hissing cats issued out from hidden speakers, shivering through the gray mists of the fog machines.

Kevin had assured us the black clothes would make us less noticeable, but surrounded by a sea of kids decked out in bright, unnatural shades, I couldn't help but feel we stood out like sore thumbs.

However, the parents were occupied with warning their little ones to stop whining or to stay out of the road.

The homeowners had dragged their lawn chairs out front, along with bowls of candy and coolers of what my mom called adult beverages.

Their slurred wishes of happy Halloween growing in volume as they continued to indulge.

We were, for all practical purposes, invisible to those occupied and adult adults.

In sharp contrast, Mr.

O'Healy was dressed in a three-piece suit, clear-eyed and sober as a judge.

He spent a full minute or more glad-handing with every parent after dropping a full-sized candy bar into their kid's bucket.

It was, after all, an election year.

We caught snatches of Mr.

O'Healy's conversations with his constituents.

Shame about that project.

Who's that under there?

Is that Adam Anderson's kid?

Worried about brush fires, which, you know, man, what a tool.

Just drop the bag and go, I thought for probably the hundredth time.

But every time the thought nudged its way forward, I would notice Stacy looking at me.

To leave now would brand me a coward.

And, worse, lame.

I would be cast out.

And maybe Kevin or Will would.

My ruminations were cut short when Officer Knott's distinctive, gravelly drawl was magnified over his patrol car's PA.

The Trebold Police Department would like to remind all the

little ghosts and ghouls out tonight that the curfew is now in effect.

So, unless you're accompanied by a parent or guardian, it's time to gather up the last of your treats, climb aboard your broomsticks, and fly home.

Failure to comply will constitute a criminal misdemeanor and can carry fines of up to $1,000.

Happy Halloween.

Knott's patrol car passed behind us on the street, slowly bathing the world in flashing red and blue.

We waited.

Will let out a low giggle before slapping his hand over the white jawbone of his mask.

Kevin's eyes danced back and forth behind his mask's triangular eye holes, practically pinballing in anticipation.

Stacy was absolutely silent.

I tried to ignore the sharp tang of bile I could taste in my own breath.

Mrs.

O'Healy, bearing the hairstyle of an astronaut's wife, had just been called out on the porch by her husband to admire the Peckham's newborn twins.

The boys, no more than three months, were dressed as Bert and Ernie.

Then, just 500 feet or so from us, Knotts let loose with a combination of siren wails and electronic tones.

My heart leapt up into my mouth.

Satisfied he had the attention of all around him once again, he repeated his script.

The Trebold Police Department would like to remind all of us.

I was surprised as anyone when I actually tossed the first egg.

But not as surprised as Mr.

O'Heerly.

My throat caused the egg to explode against his white dress shirt, and he cried out as if he'd been struck by a 9mm slug.

I let out a wild laugh at the sight.

The sense of power it brought was sweeter than any candy I'd ever been given.

Within seconds, we raised a dozen or more of the spoiled projectiles onto their porch, and the air was filled with the crack and plop of each as it shattered against door, step, and railing.

All the little ghosts and ghouls out tonight.

Then, one of the O'Healie's windows shattered with a resounding thud, and the glass fell in a tinkling shower of shards.

We turned to look at one another, our arms still cocked back for our next assault.

The confusion in my friend's body language confirmed it wasn't any of us.

We all turned around and saw a tiny girl, maybe half a head shorter than me.

Her clothes matched her uniform, black hoodie and dark jeans.

On her head, she wore a flimsy red and yellow plastic mask with arched eyebrows and a pointed chin.

Her black devil horns bounced in glee as she waved at us.

Then, before a word could be spoken, she took off running.

and disappeared into the slender gap between two houses and was gone from sight.

We'd barely had time to register what just happened when Mr.

O'Healy's voice boomed behind us.

You four, stay right there.

Ah, run!

Then, without a thought, and as one, we did just that.

We emerged on the other side of the gap the devil girl had squeezed through.

There was no consideration of whether we were chasing after this kid or simply following her escape route.

We'd only gone a couple of blocks when Kevin tossed his jack-o-lantern mask aside.

It had been battering against his cheeks and eyes, obscuring his vision, and he'd nearly stumbled a dozen times.

The paper-mâché husk, lovingly made by Kevin's own mom for a school play about the food groups, cracked against the ground like...

well, an egg.

I reached up and realized I was still wearing my own mask.

The plan had been to toss them after the deed was done, like ditching the car after a bank heist.

Wait!

What?

I took the opportunity to place my hands on my knees and try to get my ragged breathing under control.

Will looked around, confused.

Do you see her anywhere?

We looked 360 degrees around us, but there wasn't any sign of the girl.

Maybe she turned off on...

There are no street signs.

Stacy was right.

Sidewalks, streetlights, but no signs.

There weren't even numbers on the curbs.

I couldn't see any of the water towers.

Not the university tower on campus.

Not the city tower by the Mormon Temple.

Not Touchdown Tower next to the stadium.

I had lived in Tripol my whole life, and you could see one of the three from practically anywhere in town.

But there was no sign of them anywhere on the horizon.

We must have walked for an hour or more.

There were no lights on in any of the houses, but street lamps hummed above and cast everything in a sickly iodine light.

No cars drove past.

We saw no other kids, horned or otherwise, scampering to get home.

Down both sides, stretching as far as the eye could see, were brown and beige ranch-style homes with the same Kelly Green door.

We turned down different roads and streets, but each led to another identical neighborhood.

Even the decorations each house bore were the same.

A single strand of dead orange lights over the front window, a jack-o'-lantern on the front step, and an autumn wreath made of plastic leaves hung on the green door.

Orange lights, jack-o'-lantern, wreath.

Orange lights, jack-o'-lantern, wreath.

Orange lights, jack-o'-lantern.

We kept going, our feet scraping along the pavement.

By that point, the adrenaline of our crime and the chase had truly left us.

And a slow creeping exhaustion was making its way into our bones.

I'm hungry.

Would have been good to actually get some candy.

We started trying doorbells.

No chime was heard.

We knocked.

No one came.

I began hammering my fist against one.

Kevin grabbed my elbow.

Dude, you're gonna get us in trouble.

I spun and threw my first serious punch since pre-K.

Kevin went sprawling onto the lawn of some anonymous house.

I stood over Kevin, fists balled up tight.

This was your dumb idea.

Will appeared between us.

Hey man, back off!

I wanted nothing more than to smack my bruised knuckles into Kevin's big dumb face a dozen times.

And if I had to go through Will to do it, then maybe that was okay, too.

Sure, it had been Kevin's idea, but Will was our leader, whether we said it out loud or not.

It was only because he was ride or die with that idiot that we'd come along.

Stacy hollered with a sudden adult authority that sounded eerily like her mom.

Knock it off.

That doesn't help anybody.

After a long moment, I stomped away, and Will helped Kevin to his feet.

Kevin's lower lip was trembling, and with a large indignant snuff of his nose, he ran off across the street.

I thudded my back against the same door I'd assaulted moments before.

I looked down at my knuckles and with mild surprise saw that I'd skinned them.

I immediately thought of mom and how she'd wanted to get peroxide on them.

And I really really hoped the mask hid the fact that I'd started to cry.

Then the porchlight flared brightly above me, putting black spots into my vision.

The door swung inwards, and the back of my head cracked against hardwood flooring.

Blinking through the eyes of my mask, I saw a man in a bright orange cardigan with a huge glass bowl of candy in one hand.

The homeowner was obviously concerned at the sight of me laid out against his threshold.

Oh, hey!

Hey!

Hey, Kevin!

We found somebody!

Will called out into the darkness, frantically flapping his arms.

He's got candy!

The man set the bowl down on a little side table just inside the door, straightened his sweater, and tucked his hands under my armpits.

I got my feet under me while the man gently hoisted me up.

He began dusting me off, just the way my grandfather used to after I tumbled off my bike.

He cocked his head to the side.

The palms of his hands held out in front of him.

An implicit, Are you

I'm g I'm good.

The homeowner clapped his hands together, and then placed them against his chest as though this was exactly what he wanted to hear.

And oh, how relieved he was too.

It was as he leaned back into the porchlight that I realized the man was wearing a mask.

It was smooth and glossy, almost transparent.

Plastic molded to form brows, eyes, and smiling lips.

The moisture of his breath puffed up through it, repeatedly obscuring what few features might have been seen underneath.

Only the eyes, alive with warmth and mirth, were clearly visible.

He turned as though to go back inside.

I had started backing away as soon as the owner's eyes were off me.

He'd done nothing, but my brain was screaming something was wrong.

I had only managed a couple of steps before colliding with Will and Stacy.

No,

no, sir.

Please, we're so lost.

Kevin was panting as he ran up behind us.

The owner turned back, extending the full bowl towards us.

Oh, man!

Yeah!

With instincts honed by 12 years of experience, Will and Stacey reached out for the bright yellow wrappers.

I did not follow suit.

Kevin was boxed out by Will and Stacy.

Come on, guys!

Then, reptile fast, the man snatched the bowl away.

Uh-uh-uh.

He waggled one disapproving finger and then stood in silent anticipation.

It was Stacy who produced the appropriate response.

Oh.

Trick-or-treat?

Trigger-treat?

The owner nodded, satisfied, and held the bowl out for them.

Will, who apparently had been as hungry as Kevin, pulled up his mask enough to expose his mouth and tore the package open.

Sir, could we use your phone?

Guys!

Kevin stepped around Will and Stacey and dug a hand into the bowl.

He did not see what I saw.

In a split second before it happened, the man's mask, his flawless false face, was splitting apart.

Bobbin, what?

A seam popped down from the center of the forehead to the cleft of its chin.

A gigantic puckering of plastic that revealed a mass of sinewy ropey tissue, prying apart a vertical flytrap maw of orange and yellow teeth.

If Kevin had time to register any of this before the impossible mouth lunged forward and chomped down around his head, I would never know.

Wet, meaty cracks and thumps filled the coppery air around us.

We stood there, frozen.

Even Kevin's body stood in place until the final signals traveled down his ruined spine.

And the remaining meat collapsed at the dad thing's feet.

Not that it seemed to to notice.

With three massive full body contractions, the abomination swallowed Kevin's head, sliding it down the bulging throat with a tumorous slither.

Then its face swayed lithely back together, the stratums closing and assuming the paternal visage once again.

The father thing straightened its sweater.

Not a single piece of candy had fallen from the bowl.

Then it turned its affable gaze on us and extended the dish, as though it hadn't just eaten a large chunk of Kevin.

I found my friend's hands and we stumbled backwards down the steps, barely keeping our feet under us as we screamed.

Our shrieks were only stopped by a collective wooden groan coming from everywhere around us.

Porch lights came on, one after another, and the front doors swung open in sequence like dominoes falling.

The street was awash in buttery electric light as dozens of figures emerged from the houses.

Out stepped a nurse in a a starched alabaster dress and white nylons, a cap with a bright red cross symbol perched on her head.

Her face was caked in clumps of white grease paint makeup, and a dark, tar-like substance circled her eyes.

A porch away stood a wall of a man decked out in a blue uniform, with a comically large badge on his chest.

Under his peaked cap, a latex mask of an old man's face flapped with each of his exhalations.

Striding towards them was a reedy figure in a black graduate gown and mortarboard, a thick yardstick bouncing on his shoulder.

A pair of round granny glasses threatened to slide off the frictionless slope of the nose on his smooth eggshell mask.

Each costumed figure had a bowl or bag heavy with treats.

They slid their way across the porches, waving and nodding at each other like neighbors starting their workday.

Hi, Fred.

Morning, Wilma.

The man in the orange cardigan put fingers to his smiling, unmoving mouth.

His other mouth.

And issued forth a whistle.

Then he trotted down his steps and all but clicked his heels together, calling back over his shoulder towards the doorway of his home.

For a moment, nothing happened.

I flashed to the 4th of July every year.

when you craned your neck to the sky and it seemed to take forever before that first firework burst across it.

Then the devil mask girl appeared in the threshold, still clad in her black hoodie.

The dad thing dropped into a half-squat, and the girl scrambled up to his shoulders.

The neighborhood choir responded in kind.

Barbin!

With a quick spur of her heels into his ribs, the father and child sprinted toward us.

Our paralysis broke.

Will threw his open candy at them, sending small brown orbs sailing through the air.

We ran with no thought as to any direction or destination other than away.

Bowls went tumbling to the ground, the glass shattering and the candy they'd contained scattering under the neighbor thing's feet.

From every door, hip-high childlike figures poured out.

They bounced and skipped and clapped their tiny pale hands in gleeful anticipation in front of plastic fangs, rotting gums, and loose rubbery jaws.

The real teeth are underneath.

The thought lodged in my brain and refused to be shifted away.

Flight instinct dumped adrenaline into my bloodstream.

My grip on Stacy and Will's hands tightened.

Our legs, honed by hours of aimless bike rides through backroads and trails, turned this nightmare world into a blur.

But before long, strong hands clasped down on our shoulders and under our armpits.

We were lifted into the air above the things' heads.

We kicked, screamed, and when neither brought any results, I closed my eyes and prayed.

Not to God or Santa, but to my parents, to come and bring the real world with them.

The pretend people beneath us grunted.

as they trundled us up the stairs.

The open sky above disappeared, to be replaced by a white plaster ceiling.

Strands of orange teardrop lights glowed, providing only a dim illumination as we were carried down the hallway.

We were finally set down in a room devoid of furnishing or furniture, except a smooth, oval metal tub in its center.

In the weak glow of the lights, I could see it was filled with water.

Something briefly broke its surface before disappearing back below.

Bobin!

The father thing appeared in front of my face, a tiny scrap of black fabric pinched in the seam of its nose, from where it had eaten Kevin.

I screamed, but if the creature was offended, it gave no sign.

Instead, palms were turned towards the ceiling, and it made as though to dig its fingers into its own neck and jaw.

For one horrendous moment, I was certain it would tear the mask away, the one thing holding back what it truly was,

and I would join Kevin down its throat.

Bobbin!

It repeated the gesture.

All at once, I understood.

It wanted me,

us, to take off our masks.

I shook my head no in tiny, trembling arcs.

The father turned to look at the gathered collection of farmers, firefighters, and postal workers in the living room, as though for confirmation it was being clear.

It faced me once again and gestured to the tub.

It spoke with a paternal patience I almost believed.

No.

The father thing sighed.

I felt a hand on the back of my neck.

Two more on my shoulders, and I was hauled towards the blue-black water.

No!

I did not have time to take a breath before the tub's edge dug sharply into my stomach.

Water instantly found its way around the edges of the clown mask, flooding across my lips.

Even muffled by the water, I was aware that above me a chorus of adults and children were crying out in celebration.

A moment later, two other slaps echoed down, and the party guests raised their voices again.

Will and Stacey had joined me in the water.

The hand planted against the back of my head tightened and inched me down just a bit further.

Something brushed against the plastic of my mask's mouth.

At first gently, then with urgency against those plastic lips.

Another was against my cheek.

One had touched the bare skin of my neck when I was pulled back up.

I saw out of the corner of my eye Stacey and Will, held on either side of me by a chef and a garbage man respectively.

They were coughing, and spurts of water were coming up from the eye holes of their masks with each hacking sputter.

The crowd looked at us with anticipation visible in their dim eyes.

The father crouched down and hooked an index finger at the edge of its chin.

No!

No!

Stacy shook one hand free to grasp at the line of her mask.

For one moment I was certain she was going to cave, but instead she let the water trapped inside run down her front and then smoothed her mask back in place.

No!

The father thing held its hands up.

Kids, am I right?

Down we went again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, whatever was in the water pressed against our faces, our mouths, with increasing insistence and in increasing numbers.

Each time we were pushed deeper and held down longer.

When my lungs were burning, begging for me to just breathe in for a moment, I opened my eyes.

They stung against the grit and cold of the water.

Dozens of dim spherical shapes, very much like apples, filled the field of my vision.

They pulsed and twisted towards me with a sinuous grace.

I turned my head downward, unable to bear the sight.

I thought, down,

down deeper than the tub had any right to hold, I could see faint specks of white and a crescent, distinct from the murk around them.

And then I was drawn back up to the surface.

We were all coughing, choking, and barely heard the father thing's question.

We were not given time to reply.

When we were forced down that last time,

I sought out first Stacy's and then Will's hand.

I did not fight against the motion, instead, driving with all the strength I could muster towards the murky bottom.

I felt first my knees, then feet lift off the floor, and as I heard a roar from the crowd above erupt, we plunged down,

past the surface, past the probing spheres,

down,

down into the inky, icy below.

When we came up again, we were greeted by nothing but cool air.

We were standing in the fountain in front of the library, knee-deep, just like Alyssa Maselli's uncle on St.

Patrick's Day.

The moon, looking like God's thumbnail above, welcomed us home.

We just stared at each other.

A moment from now, it would all hit us.

We'd been chased by monsters playing dress-up, and Kevin was dead.

The reality of it hung, half-realized, and was about to crash down.

And then there would be tears.

Before that could happen, this world of familiar sounds and sights was filled with siren wails and flashing red and blue.

As Officer Knotts stepped out of his cruiser, I had never been so happy to see an adult in my entire life.

A familiar, human face.

An authority to impose order on the chaos.

I splashed across the fountain.

My arms were stretched out to him as if for a hug.

Tears did come, then, and mixed with the water that ran down the mask.

I went to take it off and tell Knott everything that had happened, so he could somehow make it right.

Officer Knots pulled his revolver from his holster.

You keep that on, son.

What?

You heard me, goddammit.

You keep that mask on, and you step out of there right, goddamn now.

Stunned, I drew the heavy, sodden leg of my jeans out of the water and placed it on the edge of the fountain's rim.

Behind me, I heard sloshing as Will and Stacey followed my lead.

You two, stay right where you are.

I heard my friend's sniffles and sobs of confusion.

But they stopped.

Officer Knott gestured for me to approach him slowly.

I did so, but then he held up his hand.

At that distance, his gun's barrel looked like a train tunnel.

Did you take that mask off at any time when you were over there?

No.

A part of my mind began to replay the phrase over there again and again.

We had been away.

For even a second?

No.

He nodded.

Did you eat anything?

What?

Jesus Christ, did they give you anything?

Did those things make you eat anything?

No.

Knotts squinted and tilted his head from one side to the other, releasing the muscles with an audible pop.

Take it off.

What happened next happened all at once.

I heard a strangling, gurgling noise.

I turned and saw Will, his hands around his throat.

A thick brown sludge issued out of his mouth and from behind his eyes.

He snarled from the back of his throat, trying to force out what looked like a river of sewage.

Will's jaw began to ratchet down, the latex of his mask stretching and tearing with the sound of flesh, bones and tendons beneath, cracking and rending themselves apart.

From the impossibly wide-open mouth, erupting up from the strange, sweet-smelling stream of shit that flowed out of it, was a mass.

A wad of gelatinous, iridescent orange tissue writhed and heaved.

It surged forward, pulled by by appendages both finger and tentacle-like, that found purchase on either side of Will's ruined mouth.

From above its parting maw bulged a pair of eyes.

They were pendulous, ruddy red and glared at me with an unmistakable recognition.

Something behind me cracked, and a large hole appeared just below the thing's misshapen eye, and then exploded out the back of Will's skull.

I could only watch as his body slumped down into and then below the water.

It should have been too shallow for this, but Will and the partial birthed thing still lodged in his throat sank out of sight as the swirling eddies of brown and red danced on the surface.

Do you think we do this for kicks?

Knotts broke me out of my daze.

I turned back around fast, way too fast.

I tensed, imagining the impact of the bullet with such intensity that I actually swayed backwards on my heels and threatened to drop back into the fountain's waters.

Do you think we like making up all these rules just to fuck with you?

Why the hell can't you kids just listen?

I held my hands up and shrugged.

What else was there to do?

I told them, but those pricks want to pretend this is all normal.

I told them you need the masks and the bonfire.

Otherwise, those things think that we've forgotten them.

If we don't have both,

take it off.

With numb fingers, I slipped the mask off.

My heart fluttered as I felt the night air against my exposed skin.

Knott exhaled, allowing himself a moment before pointing his pistol at Stacey.

What about you, young lady?

We sat next to each other, huddled on a wooden bench in the police station, our hands tightly clasped together.

The officer manning the phones had only glanced at us occasionally after giving us the blanket and two cups of vending machine cocoa.

Under the tube lighting of the station, we'd spoken to a dozen people or so, all of various types of authority.

Officers, deputies, and a few sleepy-looking folks in suits.

When did you know you'd slipped through?

How long do you think you were there?

When did your friend remove his mask?

What did they wear?

How did you get back?

What did your friend eat?

Did you eat anything?

The sun was just coming up, and we watched through the building's glass front as our parents spoke outside with Mr.

O'Healery and Officer Knotts.

O'Healy was wearing a clean suit, of course, and weary eyes.

Knotts still had on the same uniform he'd shot Will in.

For one moment, when the two had intercepted our parents at the front door, I had actually worried we might still be in trouble for the yagging.

There had been yelling, profanities, and threats tossed around.

All from our folks.

Mr.

O'Healer took it all and spoke slowly, calmly, weathering the assault as they blustered and raged.

Knotts kept his hand resting against his pistol.

Little by little, I watched his mom and dad lost steam.

and began to nod.

Before they came in to finally take us, their children, home, they all shook Mr.

O'Healy's hand.

Stacy rode away in her dad's pickup, and my family went home in the station wagon.

We both slept in our own beds, just as we had the night before, and as we would the night after, and the night after that.

The drought and the curfew went on for many more years after.

Me and Stacy grew apart in the way that friends and first crushes often do.

But on that one night of the year, even once the rain started to fall again and the bonfire resumed, we'd call each other.

We'd remain on the line until the cries of trick-or-treat ceased and the morning came.

Then Stacy moved away for brighter and better things than Trebol could offer.

Still, most years,

especially the dry ones when there could be no fire to signal the neighbors, I stay by the phone, just in case it rings.

On those dry and lonely nights, my eyes drift to the window, to the tree-line pass where the porchlight can illuminate.

I try to convince myself I can't see them, standing on dead leaves and staring back.

Sometimes it's the girl in the devil mask, bouncing up and down with glee.

Sometimes it's a skeleton, its rubbery ruined jaw hanging down to its chest.

Standing next to a paper-mâché pumpkin man with only empty space behind its triangle eyes.

Sometimes it's the man in the orange cardigan, a full bowl of candy in one hand, beckoning me with a neighborly wave with the other.

And with that, our Halloween 2024 special has come to an end.

We thank you for joining us and sharing your Halloween candy with us.

Join us again next week when the horrors of Halloween continue forever and ever

and ever.

The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media.

The musical composer is Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Michulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornette, and Claudius Moore.

Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy and Ashley McInally.

I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings.

Please visit thenosleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring you this show, along with hundreds of hours of audio horror stories in our archives.

On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for supporting our dark tales.

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