"One Last House":
That Halloween night, my best friend Jenny and I decided to sneak out for some late-night fun. We were thirteen — old enough to know better, but still young enough to think danger was something that happened to other people. Our town was quiet, the kind where the streets wound between old oak trees and houses sat far apart, their porches wrapped in shadow. Most kids had long gone home, candy stashed away, costumes tossed aside. But we weren’t ready for the night to end. We wanted one last bit of adventure — one more handful of candy, one more thrill before the spell of Halloween faded.
Jenny lived just down the block. We’d planned it all afternoon over the phone, whispering like conspirators.
“Let’s dress up simple,” she said. “I’ll be a cat. You be a witch. Meet me at the corner at eleven-thirty.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound brave. “But if it gets boring, we come right back.”
When I met her under the streetlight, the world felt different — still and too quiet. Jenny had black whiskers drawn on her cheeks and a tail pinned to her jeans. I wore my old witch hat, slightly crooked, and carried an empty pillowcase that rustled in the breeze. The air smelled like wet leaves and the faint smoke of someone’s dying bonfire.
We started with Mrs. Harlan’s house — she always gave out full-size chocolate bars.
She opened the door in her nightgown, blinking at us in surprise. “Girls, it’s late. Most folks are in bed.”
“We thought we’d try anyway,” Jenny said, smiling wide. “Trick or treat?”
Mrs. Harlan chuckled and dropped candy into our bags. “Be careful out there,” she said. “And go straight home.”
We promised we would — and didn’t.
Next came Mr. Peterson’s place. He answered in his robe, hair sticking up like he’d just rolled out of bed. “Midnight visitors? You two trying to scare me to death?” He sighed and handed us a handful of mints. “Now scat before I call your parents.”
“Thanks, Mr. Peterson!” Jenny said cheerfully, tugging me away before I could apologize.
The streets grew emptier after that, the houses darker. The jack-o’-lanterns we passed had burned down to glowing stubs, their faces warped and sagging. Our laughter sounded too loud in the stillness.
Then Jenny spotted a house near the end of Elm Street — the porch light still on, faint and flickering. “Let’s try that one,” she said. “Bet they’ve got good stuff left.”
I hesitated. “I don’t think I know them.”
“They’re new, I think,” she said, already halfway up the walk.
Two cars sat in the driveway, both covered in a film of dust. I followed, heart thudding. Jenny knocked. No answer. She knocked again, harder this time.
The door opened slowly. A man stood there — tall, messy hair, face shadowed except for his eyes, which looked too awake for the hour.
“What do you want?” he asked, voice flat.
“Trick or treat,” Jenny said, forcing a grin.
He studied us for a long moment. “Kind of late for little girls to be out alone.”
“We’re not little,” I said, my voice smaller than I meant it to be.
He dropped a few candies into our bags without breaking eye contact. “There. Now go home.”
We turned to leave, but before the door closed, I heard something — two men arguing inside, low and tense, like a radio tuned just below hearing. The door clicked shut, locking us out — or maybe in, somehow.
“That was weird,” Jenny whispered.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s just take the park shortcut home.”
The park was at the end of the street, a wide patch of black between the trees. The gravel path cut straight through to our neighborhood. We’d played there a hundred times, but now, in the dark, everything looked different. The trees leaned closer. The air felt heavy.
We started walking, our sneakers crunching softly. Jenny hummed under her breath, trying to sound casual. Halfway through, I heard another crunch — behind us this time.
“Jenny,” I whispered. “Stop.”
She froze. “What?”
“Listen.”
We stood still. Another step. Then another — slower, closer.
“Probably a cat,” Jenny said, but her voice trembled.
We walked faster. The sound followed — steady, deliberate, matching our pace.
“Run,” I said.
We took off, gravel spraying beneath our shoes, candy thudding against our legs. I glanced back — two shapes, dark against darker, moving fast.
“Jenny!” I shouted as we reached the fork in the path. She veered left, I went right. It wasn’t planned — just panic.
When I burst out of the trees at the far end of the park, I stopped and waited, gasping for breath. The street was empty. No Jenny.
“Jenny?” I called.
Silence. Then a faint sound — a muffled cry, somewhere behind me.
I crept back, staying low, heart hammering so hard I thought it would give me away. Through the bushes, I saw them — two men dragging Jenny toward a truck parked off the path. She kicked and fought, but one held her by the arms, the other pressed a hand over her mouth.
“Let me go!” she screamed when he slipped.
“Shut up,” one of them growled. “Get in the truck.”
The other one laughed — a sound I’ll never forget. “This one’s feisty. It’ll be fun.”
I wanted to move. To scream. To do something. But my body wouldn’t listen. My legs were stone. My voice was gone.
They shoved her inside, slammed the door, and drove off without headlights. The taillights vanished into the dark.
When I finally ran home, I was half out of my mind. My mom was still up reading. She took one look at me and stood. “What happened?”
“Jenny… men took her,” I gasped.
She called the police. The house filled with flashing lights and questions. I told them everything — the man at the door, the arguing voices, the footsteps in the park. They searched all night. Found her pillowcase in the grass, candy scattered like tiny bones.
Three days later, they found her body under a bridge outside town.
They said it was quick. I don’t believe that.
The men turned out to be brothers, and one of their friends — drifters with records, known trouble but never caught. Years later, one of them confessed. He said they saw us earlier, decided to grab one. Just for fun.
The others are gone now. Prison, overdose, death — it doesn’t matter.
What matters is that sometimes, when I walk home late and hear leaves crunch behind me, I still turn around expecting to see her — Jenny with her whiskers and her tail, laughing at me for being scared.
But it’s never her.
Just the sound of footsteps, fading into the dark.
"The Knock":
I was fifteen that Halloween night in 1959, living in Los Angeles with my dad, Peter, my stepmom, Betty, and my two stepbrothers, Richard and Joseph. Dad owned a couple of beauty shops in the city, and while business was steady, things at home had been unraveling for months. You could feel it in the air—thick, tense, like something waiting to snap. Dad and Betty argued more often now, always behind closed doors, though the walls weren’t thick enough to hide the sharp edge in their voices. Still, he tried to keep things normal for us kids. That evening, he’d joked with us about our costumes—my witch hat, Richard’s cowboy outfit, Joseph’s pirate patch—doing his best to sound cheerful.
After dinner, he handed out candy at the door while I took the boys around the neighborhood. I’d mostly outgrown trick-or-treating, but I went for their sake. The streets smelled faintly of smoke and candy corn, porch lights glowing like jack-o’-lanterns against the cool autumn dark. Los Angeles didn’t get much in the way of seasons, but that night, the air felt crisp, almost like fall belonged there for once.
We came home around nine. The boys were flushed from running, their bags sagging with candy. They emptied everything onto the living room rug, laughing as they sorted through chocolates and taffy. Dad sat in his favorite chair, a cigarette burning between his fingers, watching them with this soft smile. “Look at all that loot,” he said, glancing at me as I took off my hat. “You kids hit the jackpot tonight.”
Betty was in the kitchen, her back to us as she washed the dishes. She didn’t join in. Her movements were tight, mechanical, like she was somewhere else in her mind. Dad asked if she wanted to come watch TV, and she just said, “Maybe later,” without turning around.
By ten-thirty, the laughter faded, and the street outside went quiet. Most porch lights had been switched off, leaving only the occasional flicker of a candle in a jack-o’-lantern. The boys went upstairs to bed, still sneaking pieces of candy under their pillows. I stayed with Dad, flipping through a Life magazine while he talked—about work, about school, about nothing in particular. There was a weight in his voice that night, something heavy he didn’t name. “You’re growing up fast, Judy,” he said, ruffling my hair. “Soon you’ll be too old for this Halloween business.”
I smiled, but he looked tired, older than his years. Betty came in then and sat on the other side of the room, saying nothing. She kept glancing toward the clock. Eleven o’clock was creeping close, and she seemed to be waiting for it.
That’s when we heard it—a car pulling up outside. Not unusual, maybe a neighbor or someone lost, but then the engine went quiet. Dad stretched, stood, and said he’d head to bed soon. I told him I would too. And then the doorbell rang.
The sound sliced through the still house. One sharp, unexpected chime.
Dad frowned and looked toward the door. “Who could that be this late?” he muttered. Betty didn’t answer at first, then said, “Probably some kids playing a prank,” her voice flat, almost rehearsed.
Dad flipped on the porch light and walked to the door. From where I sat on the couch, I could see him open it—and see the figure standing there.
At first, I thought it was a man, maybe a tall woman. Baggy jeans, an oversized khaki jacket, gloves, a floppy hat pulled low, and thick, messy makeup smeared across the face—white paint, streaks of red and black, like a clown after a storm. They held out a brown paper bag. “Trick or treat,” they said in a high, muffled voice that didn’t sound quite real.
Dad laughed lightly. “Aren’t you a little big for this?” he joked, reaching for the candy bowl on the table near the door. But the figure didn’t respond, didn’t even move—just kept that bag extended. The silence stretched too long. Something in my stomach turned.
Dad’s hand hovered midair. “You okay there?” he asked.
Then the figure pulled something from the bag—a gun, small and dark.
The sound shattered the quiet. One deafening crack.
Dad staggered back, his expression frozen in disbelief. His hand went to his chest, crimson blooming through his shirt. He fell hard onto the carpet, his cigarette scattering ash beside him.
“Dad!” I screamed, running forward. Betty was already there, dropping to her knees beside him. “Peter! Oh, God, Peter!” she cried, her voice breaking.
The figure at the door turned and bolted into the night. Through the window, I saw a shadowed car waiting at the curb, headlights off. The door slammed, tires squealed, and they were gone.
Dad was gasping, blood bubbling at his lips. “Call… help,” he whispered. I froze, paralyzed by shock, until Betty shoved me toward the phone. “Judy, hurry! Call the operator!”
I fumbled with the receiver, my fingers slick with tears. The operator’s calm voice didn’t match the terror in our house. “Help’s coming,” she said, but time had stopped.
Dad’s eyes were glassy now. He reached for me, his hand trembling. “It’s okay, kiddo,” he whispered. But it wasn’t. The rug beneath him was soaked red. Betty sobbed beside him, rocking, whispering his name again and again.
The sirens came too late. Blue and red lights danced across the windows as the ambulance pulled up. Paramedics rushed in, lifted Dad onto a stretcher. One of them met Betty’s eyes and shook his head almost imperceptibly.
He didn’t make it to the hospital.
The next few days blurred together—neighbors bringing casseroles, reporters at the door, police asking endless questions. “Did you see the shooter’s face?” they asked me. I shook my head. “Just the costume. The makeup. It didn’t look… human.”
Betty told them it must’ve been random, a Halloween maniac. But I remembered how she’d stared at the clock. The quiet way she’d said, Probably some kids playing a prank.
Two weeks later, the truth came out. The police arrested a woman named Goldyne Pizer—a friend of a woman named Joan Rabel, who worked with Dad at one of his shops. Goldyne confessed. She said Joan had convinced her to do it. Joan had been close to Betty, closer than most friends. Too close, people whispered. Joan bought the gun, a .38 revolver, from a man in Pasadena. They planned the disguise together—clothes, gloves, makeup, even the bandana to hide her mouth. Joan waited in the car that night while Goldyne went to the door.
When the detective explained it to me, I remember asking why. He hesitated, glancing toward Betty sitting silently in the next room. “It’s complicated, kid,” he said softly. “Grown-up things.”
But I overheard the rest later—Joan and Betty had been in love. Joan wanted Dad gone so she could have Betty to herself. She told Goldyne lies—that Dad was cruel, that Betty was trapped. And Goldyne, naïve and devoted, believed her. They chose Halloween because a stranger in costume wouldn’t raise suspicion.
At the trial, Goldyne broke down on the stand. “Joan said it would be quick,” she told the court. “Just ring the bell, say ‘trick or treat,’ and do it.” Joan denied everything, but the evidence was too strong. The gun, the disguise, the witnesses.
Betty cried in the courtroom, swore she’d known nothing. The jury believed her. She walked free.
But after that, nothing in our house was ever the same. Dad’s chair stayed empty, his tools gone from the garage, his laughter replaced by silence. We moved not long after, but the echo of that gunshot followed me everywhere.
Even now, every Halloween, I can still hear that doorbell ring—sharp, bright, and final. I still see the flash of the porch light, the figure standing there with a paper bag and painted face. And I still remember how, for one terrible second, it had felt like just another harmless trick-or-treater.
You never really know who’s behind the mask…
or what they’ve come for.
"The Visitor":
I had just sunk into the couch after a long night of handing out candy to the neighborhood kids. The house was finally still—no laughter, no footsteps, just the low hum of the refrigerator and the whisper of wind against the windowpanes. Lisa and her two kids, Emma and Jack, were asleep down the hall. They’d drifted off easily after hours of excitement, the kind only Halloween could bring.
Lisa had asked me to stay over since I lived across town, and neither of us felt like me driving back so late. We’d spent most of the evening laughing—about the kids’ costumes, the sugar rushes, the shy little ghosts who could barely say “trick or treat.” It felt good, normal. Safe.
Emma, six years old, had been especially proud of her witch outfit. “Auntie Kim, look at my hat!” she’d said, spinning until the hem of her black dress fanned out like a whirlpool. Jack, her four-year-old brother, had been brandishing his toy sword, a tiny pirate captain on a candy mission. “Arrr! I got the most candy!” he’d declared, face sticky with chocolate. Lisa had just laughed, her tired eyes soft. “Okay, you two, time for bed before you both turn into goblins.”
That warmth still lingered as I stretched out under a blanket, half-watching the flickering light of the last candle in the pumpkin by the window. Outside, the street was empty. Midnight had come and gone. Halloween was over. Or so I thought.
The knock came sharp and sudden—three hard raps that cut through the silence. I froze.
For a moment, I thought I imagined it. But then came another knock, louder, more impatient. My heart gave a startled kick. Who the hell comes knocking at 12:40 in the morning? Maybe some teenagers, late stragglers hoping for one last handful of candy.
Still, something about it didn’t sit right. The sound wasn’t playful. It was heavy. Intentional.
I pulled the blanket aside and stood, the floor cold beneath my bare feet. The porch light had already been switched off, but through the peephole I could make out a tall figure—broad shoulders, dark clothes. His face was obscured by something pale. A mask.
Then came the voice, muffled but deep:
“Trick or treat?”
It was almost playful—but off. Like someone imitating a human voice, just slightly wrong.
A nervous laugh caught in my throat. “Hold on,” I called through the door, though my voice trembled. “Let me get the candy.”
I didn’t move. My hand hovered over the lock, and a cold dread began creeping through me. Something told me not to open that door.
Then the first bang came—so hard it rattled the frame.
I jumped back with a yelp. “Hey! Stop!”
The second impact was louder, splintering wood, and before I could even react, the door exploded inward with a deafening crack. A man stepped through the wreckage—a towering silhouette in a black hoodie, wearing a grinning skull mask.
He was holding a gun.
“Don’t move,” he said, his voice low, rough—no trace of playfulness now.
My breath hitched as he shut the door behind him with a soft, deliberate click.
“Please,” I stammered. “Take whatever you want. My purse—wallet’s right there.”
He didn’t even glance at it. The gun stayed level with my chest as his head turned slowly, scanning the room like he already knew where everything was.
And then, in that stillness, came his first words that made my blood run cold.
“Where’s the bedroom?”
I felt my stomach drop. He knew there was one.
“There are kids,” I whispered, stepping in front of the hallway. “Please, just take the money and go.”
He ignored me and moved past. His boots thudded on the tile, his pace calm, steady, like this was all rehearsed.
I wanted to scream, to throw something, but I couldn’t move. My legs wouldn’t obey. He turned down the hallway, walking straight toward Lisa’s room like he’d been there before.
“Stop!” I hissed, following him. “You can’t go in there!”
He reached the door, pushed it open, and flicked on the light.
Lisa stirred instantly, sitting up, eyes blinking against the brightness. Emma and Jack were beside her, half-asleep and confused.
“Kim? What’s—” she began, then froze when she saw the man.
Her face drained of color. “Oh, God.”
Emma whimpered, “Mommy?” and Jack’s pirate sword fell from his hand with a clatter.
Lisa raised her hands instinctively. “Please,” she begged. “Please don’t hurt my children. Take whatever you want, just don’t—”
The man didn’t speak. He just aimed the gun at her.
The first shot shattered the air.
Lisa’s body jerked back against the headboard, her mouth open in shock. Emma screamed, a high, raw sound that seemed to pierce straight through me.
Jack was wailing now, clutching at his mother’s arm. “Mommy! Mommy!”
“Stop!” I cried out, but before I could move, a second shot thundered. Lisa slumped forward, her hair falling over her face. Blood spread across the sheets, bright and shocking against the white fabric.
The man stood there for a heartbeat longer, gun still raised, chest heaving under his hoodie. Then he turned his head toward me. The hollow black eyes of the skull mask locked on mine.
I couldn’t breathe.
But instead of raising the gun, he lowered it—slowly. Then he walked past me, brushing my shoulder as he went, the faint smell of gunpowder trailing behind him.
The front door creaked. Footsteps on the porch. The distant roar of an engine.
And then—silence.
I rushed to the bed, grabbing Lisa’s hand. “Lisa! Lisa, please!” But it was limp, still warm but lifeless.
Emma was sobbing uncontrollably, her small body shaking in my arms. Jack’s face was buried in his blanket, whispering “Mommy” over and over. I held them both, rocking, whispering, “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” though it was a lie. Nothing was okay.
My fingers fumbled with my phone, slick with tears. “911,” I managed to tell the operator. “Someone—someone broke in. He shot her. My friend—she’s dead. Please send help.”
The sirens came minutes later, though it felt like hours. Blue and red light flooded the windows as officers stormed in, shouting commands, clearing rooms. Paramedics followed, but one look at Lisa and they just shook their heads.
They wrapped the kids and me in blankets and led us outside. The night was cold, sharp with the smell of gunpowder and rain. Neighbors stood on their porches, silent, faces pale in the flashing lights.
A deputy took my statement. “He knew where he was going,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Didn’t hesitate once.”
I nodded numbly. He had. He’d gone straight to her.
They never found him.
Weeks passed, then months. Emma and Jack went to live with relatives. They still don’t talk much. I can’t blame them. I still hear the knock in my dreams—the too-loud “trick or treat,” the splintering door, the echo of gunfire.
I used to love Halloween. The laughter, the costumes, the smell of pumpkins on the porch. Now it’s just the night the world changed.
Because sometimes, evil doesn’t wear a monster mask to hide who it is. Sometimes, it wears one to show you exactly what it is.
And when it knocks—
you never forget the sound.
"The Pillowcase Man":
It was Halloween night, and my husband Harold and I had spent the evening passing out candy to the neighborhood children. Our little house sat near the end of a quiet street in a small Iowa town — the kind where everyone knew everyone, and the air smelled faintly of wood smoke and fallen leaves. Plastic skeletons dangled from porch lights, and carved pumpkins glowed on nearly every doorstep.
Harold loved this holiday. Every year he’d pull on his faded overalls and straw hat, pretending to be a farmer — as if anyone in town didn’t already know that he sold farm equipment for a living. He’d hand out candy with a wide grin, always tossing in an extra piece for the kids who made him laugh. I wore my usual apron, bustling back and forth to refill the bowl whenever it ran low.
The kids came in waves. Early on, it was the little ones with their parents trailing behind — princesses clutching glow sticks, tiny cowboys tripping over their boots, superheroes shouting “trick-or-treat!” before their masks slipped. “Happy Halloween!” I’d say, dropping candy into their bags. One boy, no more than six, looked up at me with enormous eyes and whispered, “Your house has the best candy, ma’am.”
Harold chuckled and slipped him another chocolate bar.
As the night went on, the visitors grew older — groups of teenagers laughing too loudly, shoving one another up the walkway. By ten o’clock, the laughter had faded. The street was quiet again, the porch lights beginning to blink out one by one. We settled into the living room, a half-full bowl of candy resting on the coffee table, an old black-and-white horror movie flickering on the TV.
Harold glanced at the clock. “Think that’s it for tonight, Alice?”
“Probably,” I said, stretching. “Everyone else has packed it in.”
I stepped out to the porch and switched off our light. The neighborhood looked almost peaceful — jack-o’-lanterns flickering low, paper ghosts rustling in the wind. I closed the door and began tidying up, humming softly as Harold folded the chairs.
Then came the first sound — a soft, hollow thump against the side of the house.
We both froze.
Harold looked toward the window. “What was that?”
“Probably the wind,” I said, though my voice lacked conviction. “Or maybe one of those decorations came loose.”
He waited, listening. The silence stretched for several seconds before he shrugged and went back to work. But I couldn’t shake the uneasy flutter in my stomach.
A few minutes later, while I was rinsing cups in the sink, the phone rang — shrill and sudden, making me jump. I wiped my hands and picked it up.
“Hello?”
Nothing. Only faint, steady breathing on the other end.
“Hello?” I said again, my pulse quickening.
Click. The line went dead.
“Wrong number,” I called to Harold, forcing a laugh I didn’t feel.
He came into the kitchen, concern flickering in his eyes. “Everything alright?”
“Fine,” I lied. “Just a hang-up.”
We laughed it off and turned back to cleaning, but something about that call lingered — like the feeling of being watched when you’re sure you’re alone.
By eleven-thirty, we were getting ready for bed. Harold was changing in the bedroom while I made my usual rounds, locking the front and back doors, checking the windows. The house had gone still except for the faint hiss of wind outside.
Then came the knock.
Three sharp raps on the front door.
I froze, my hand hovering over the last lock. “Harold,” I called, my voice small, “someone’s at the door.”
“At this hour?” he muttered, stepping out in his pajamas. “Must be some late trick-or-treaters.” He smiled faintly. “Probably teenagers pulling a prank.”
We walked to the front door together. Harold unlocked it and opened it just a crack.
A figure stood on the porch, tall and still. He wore a dark coat, and over his head — a pillowcase with two holes cut for eyes. Crude. Unsettling.
“Trick-or-treat,” he said. His voice was muffled, deep, and completely humorless. He held out a small paper bag.
Harold laughed lightly. “Aren’t you a bit old for this? It’s almost midnight.”
The man didn’t move. “Give me your money,” he said. “Or I’ll shoot you.”
For a second, I thought it had to be a joke — maybe one of our nephews pulling something stupid. “Oh, Harold,” I said, nervous laughter catching in my throat.
Harold played along, still smiling. “Sure, friend. I think we’ve got something for you. Alice, that fake million-dollar bill in the closet — grab that, will you?”
I hesitated. “Harold…”
But he was already walking toward the hallway closet, the masked man stepping inside the doorway behind him. Something about the way the man moved — too fast, too deliberate — made my skin crawl.
Harold reached for the box on the top shelf. “Here you go,” he said, holding up the novelty bill.
The man lunged.
They struggled, crashing into the doorframe. The box spilled open — papers, coins, and the metallic flash of Harold’s gun.
“Harold!” I screamed.
A deafening bang split the air.
Harold staggered, clutching his neck, crimson seeping through his fingers. His eyes widened, confused — and then he fell.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. The man stood over him, chest heaving beneath the dark coat. Then he tore off the pillowcase. His face was pale, sharp-featured, unfamiliar — but there was something in his eyes I’ll never forget: cold desperation.
He looked at me.
“Don’t move,” he rasped, the gun trembling slightly. Then, just as suddenly, he turned and ran out the door, disappearing into the night.
I dropped beside Harold, pressing my hands to his wound. “No, no, no — stay with me,” I begged. His blood was warm, slick, soaking through my apron. He tried to speak, but only a wet gurgle came out.
I dialed the police with shaking fingers. “My husband’s been shot! Please — please hurry!”
The minutes dragged like hours. The only sounds were my sobs and Harold’s ragged breaths, until those too went still.
By the time the paramedics arrived, he was gone.
They covered him gently with a sheet, their faces grim and pale under the porch light.
The investigation stretched for weeks. I told the police everything I remembered — his height, his voice, the way he seemed to know about the gun. They found no prints, no footprints, nothing. The weapon was ours, taken from that very box.
How did he know it was there?
That question haunted me more than any other.
Only family knew about it.
Our son-in-law had asked about money not long before, muttering about bad luck and overdue bills. He’d seen Harold open that box once. But when I mentioned it to the detectives, they shook their heads. “He’s got an alibi,” they said. “He was out of town that night.”
I tried to believe them. But at night, when the wind rattled the windows, I wasn’t so sure.
A month later, I was alone in that house. I’d been packing boxes to move in with my daughter. It was nearly midnight when the phone rang.
I almost didn’t answer.
When I did, there was that same breathing — slow, deliberate.
Then a voice I hadn’t heard since that night.
“You should have given me the money.”
I dropped the phone, the receiver swinging on its cord. My body went numb. The police traced the call, but it led nowhere.
I left the next morning and never went back.
Now, every Halloween, I keep the lights off. I don’t open the door, don’t answer the phone after dark. Sometimes, though, as the clock nears midnight, I swear I can still hear it — three faint knocks echoing through memory and time.
And every year, I wonder what would’ve happened if we hadn’t opened that door.
But the worst part isn’t wondering if he’ll come back.
It’s knowing that he never really left.