The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S11E22 - Halloween 2018

Episode Date: October 28, 2018

It's episode 22 of Season 11, our 2018 Halloween Episode. On this week's show we have six tales celebrating the Halloween Season. "Home"† written by Keith McDuffee and performed by Erika Sanderson & Addison Peacock & Peter Lewis. (Story starts around 0:09:59) "The Graveyard Shift"† written by Manen Lyset and performed by Jeff Clement & Matthew Bradford & Andy Cresswell & Penny Scott-Andrews & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts around 0:18:21) "The Spirit of Halloween"† written by Rona Vaselaar and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Armen Taylor. (Story starts around 0:34:00) "Everyone’s Invited"† written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Corinne Sanders & Nichole Goodnight & Nikolle Doolin & Alexis Bristowe & Kyle Akers. (Story starts around 0:54:56) "I am Ghost"¤ written by Gemma Amor and performed by David Ault & Erika Sanderson & Erin Lillis. (Story starts around 1:15:09) "Hallowed Ground"† written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by Addison Peacock & Graham Rowat & Dan Zappulla & Andy Cresswell & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 1:5306)   Click here to learn more about the Call of Cthulhu   Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about Keith McDuffee   Click here to learn more about Manen Lyset   Click here to learn more about Rona Vaselaar   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about Gemma Amor   Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ Illustration courtesy of Abby Howard Audio program ©2018 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Yeah, yeah. Pardon me. Greetings, sleepless. While we here at the No Sleep podcast are famous for our, well, not sleeping, when we do occasionally drift into slumber, we are known to dream of that monstrous, many-tentacled horror, known as Cthulhu, High Priest of the Great Old Ones. That's why we've teamed up with public. Follisher Focus Home Interactive and developer Cyanide Studio to bring you the chance to win one of five copies of their upcoming horror video game. Call of Cthulhu. Now, to take part in this fantastic giveaway, head on over to the no-sleeppodcast.com slash Cthuloo.

That's C-T-H-U-L-H-U for the uninitiated. And there follow the instructions for your chance to win. Answer the call, enter madness, and brace yourself for the call of Cthulhu and the No Sleep podcast. Brightful Tales. Brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep. podcast and our celebration of Halloween 2018. We have six tales which will captivate you with the spirit of Halloween.

And now, let's journey to meet the man who will be sharing these stories with us, a man who's not expecting to receive any trick or treaters this evening. You've got an hour. Thank you, Peterson. Good morning, Alan. Hey, Doc. How are you feeling? How do you think I'm feeling?

No deflecting. Answering a question with a question. Well, it doesn't matter. I don't know why they even scheduled a session today. Seems kind of pointless, doesn't it? Why does it seem pointless? Because... You know.

Because of what today is. Well, the warden thought it might be a good idea to allow you to clear your comments. You're a psychiatrist. The only thing you're clearing is high dollar checks from the government. Alan, do you want to talk about what's going to happen today? What is there to talk about? Everything is pointless now. You've been on death row for 26 years. You've been my patient for 13 of them. And you've never wanted to talk about why you're here.

Because there's nothing to talk about why you're here. Nothing to talk about. Those people, they... They what? Go on. Everybody thinks I did it, that I killed them. And what do you think? I think that I was railroaded.

Evidence planted shortcuts, taking cops, fucking lying. You were at my appeal. You fucking know that. And you think I don't ever think about the victims? Because I do. I obsess over them. Their names, their families, their lives before they were murdered. The families are here.

I passed by them on my way in. I know. If it were my kid, I would be here too. Are you nervous? Alan? I've been thinking a lot about Sunny. You remember Sonny? Of course I remember Sonny.

They executed him like five months ago. I remember. He was... He was my friend. And he just... When his date was coming up, he just... He shut down. Stopped talking completely.

He scared the crap out of me. Because I knew that was going to be me in a matter of months. And the day before he got shot up in front of all those gaping people He he stared at the wall all day That one see Yes, I see it There's nothing on that wall And he only stared at that one wall

All day He didn't even sleep the night before his execution Sonny stayed awake all night to stare at that wall to stare at that wall. I tried to talk to him, but it was like he couldn't hear me, like he was already gone. Then they brought him his last meal.

He always said he wanted beef stroganoff over rice, the way his wife used to make. So that's what they brought him. Everyone knew what Sonny wanted for his last meal. I'd known Sonny for a decade, and she was all. all he talked about, Lucy and her cooking. Damn, Doc, he talked about that stroganoff so much.

I decided I wanted it for my last meal, too. And I told him that. And he was so proud of his Lucy. That's what he said. Okay. Go on. So they made it, you know, the way he said to make it. Because everybody liked Sonny.

And when they said it. in front of him, it was the first spark of life I'd seen in him for weeks. He started eating, and then, poof, it was gone. His dinner? No. The, uh, the life in his eyes. Sunny took one bite of that Stroganov, and then just put his spoon down and went back to staring at that wall. When they came to take him away, they walked him by myself, and he stopped, and he spoke for the first time in weeks. You know what he said to me? What did he say? He said, don't get the strogan off, Alan.

It's shit. They told me it's the last thing Sonny ever said. I mean, isn't that weird? The last moments of this man's inn. entire life, his last fucking words to give the world were just about meat over rice. Because that's what his wife used to make. He just, he loved Lucy so much, didn't he? Perhaps. He did kill her. Yeah, he did. And I don't think he ever regretted doing that. But he never stopped loving her either. Obsessing about her. Isn't that odd? Human emotions are very complex.

Yeah. Is Sunny really what you want to talk about on your last day? No, time are they coming for me. Nine o'clock. You look tired, Alan. Did you sleep okay? No. No, actually. I had all these weird dreams. How were they weird? They were just so vivid and dark, and people died in them. I kept waking up. They felt so real. Do you remember them?

Some of them. Five or six, maybe. Why don't you tell me about one? I guess it'll kill some time. The engine tore apart silence with its thumb. and with it the darkness. June's eyes fluttered into wakefulness, assaulted by the dim light within the room where she lay, puddled upon damp floorboards that throbbed in time to the clattering of oily gears

and the quickening pulse beneath her temples. There was an impulse to wretch. She rose to sit, and though the notion to be sick was gone, there was an uneasiness that remained. A sprout of awareness struck her then. That but for the roar of machinery and sauceless amber glow. She was alone. Not so wasted last night I passed out. I'm hellhole.

Fragments of memories flashed of where she'd last been. None among them connected to the here and now. The Halloween party. The cold leather of a car seat pressed against her cheek. Then, nothing. Between then and now, only the wooden floor. sickness and isolation. Hello?

The word was swallowed by the noise around her, echoing through her ears and into her sobering brain like fiery daggers. Pressing a hand against her forehead, June rose to her feet. She had to leave this room, for the good of her sanity if for nothing else. Though she stumbled upon unsure feet, the door was not hard to find. She pulled the metallic door aside. opening it upon screeching wheels into a dimly lit hallway. A solitary light bulb affixed to the wall ahead left the periphery in shadow.

Otherwise, all was empty and cold. With the door shut, the engine fell to dull thumps behind the thick steel. With it, there was but her own heartbeat, the groan of seafaring metal, and the scent of salty air. To June, the absurdity of waking sea-werew, was heightened by recalling she had last been in rural Nebraska. This was at least what was amongst her last recollections. Drugs, kidnapping, human trafficking. These notions plagued her now, struggling with her footing as the vessels she stood within bobbed atop a sea of which she couldn't

name. With the drum-drobbing of heartbeat and engine came the sound of running footfalls. June flashed to the right, squinting into the shadows beyond the single light's reach. Unmistakably, the rhythmic thumping made its quick approach. There was an urge to reach back, to pull the door back open, to shut herself into the protective shell of that which had housed the deafening machine. The moment she sees the handle, the source of the footsteps fell into the light. A pumpkin, its rigid facade beating upon the plastic tiled floor, rolled to a stop at June's feet. It fell neatly, stem up, and stem up. and purposeful.

June stared at it in confusion, hand still clasped around the door handle. Just as June's chest throbbed to match that of the engine, so too did the orange sphere at her feet. Blood seeped from unseen paws upon the pumpkin's skin, like a sponge being released of its contents within a tightening fist. An unearthly shriek bellowed from the darkened hallway where it had come, that of an anguished youth,

of fear and of unmistakable pain. June's hands fell instinctively over her ears as blood continued to pool beneath the large gourd, gushing forth in cadence with her pulse. There was no going back to where she woke. There was no going to the source of the scream. There was no staying here. June vaulted the quickly congealing mess down the hallway to her left. The screams grew more tormented with each step.

They followed as June. stumbled down the barely lit hall, her soul thought being that this was a dream, a nightmare. A cruel joke played upon the sad drunk she had become, who couldn't remember the past many hours of her existence, let alone why she was here. A door emerged at the conclusion of the darkened hall, a white ring boy bearing the name Martha Jean clinging to its midriff. As she twisted its handle and pushed, another sound filled the air. One purely in the middle of her, one purely inorganic, inanimate, mechanic, rubber upon asphalt, metal upon stone, glass relenting beneath an unforgiving blow. She couldn't hear herself above the shrill of everything about her.

The door fell inward with surprising ease. She stumbled into the room beyond, then fell backwards against the door behind her, shutting it with a resounding clang. All fell silent. Only her quickening, uneasy breaths and inner tumult remained. Then, a voice. Martha Jean welcomes you. Ahead of June, facing darkened windows within the amber-lit room, stood a man. The captain, no doubt, of this vessel upon which she'd awoken. A navy, weather-beaten coat fell loosely upon his back.

His arms crossed behind him in serene contemplation. Who the hell are you? Where am I? How did I get here? This isn't funny. Take me home. That is precisely where this fairy is taking you. June stepped forward. Her moment of terror subsiding to a sudden sense of rage. She meant to protest, to dispute the captain's absurd claim, to demand the charade was over for she had had more than enough. Then the captain turned. His visage bore little sense. semblance of humanity beyond what lay behind flesh.

The bare skull within which cradled eyes of flame. June stifled a cry, faltering backward against the door. As the hideous captain's eyes fell upon her, the memories of hours past flooded forth. The party. The indulgence of booze. Her keys. Her car. The trick-or-treating girl along the nighttime road, fresh pumpkin nested.

in her arms, the brick wall, the damp engine room floor, the cacophony of it all. From the darkness, a child's gnarled hand grasped dunes as the air became fetid and cold. Just as you carelessly sought to send Martha Jean, she's come to escort you. The captain turned away as the ferry became bathed in an orange glow, approaching not the dawn of a rising sun, but the hellfires that lay beyond and home. I know what you're going to say. What do you think I'm going to say? You're going to say that I'm worried about going to hell.

Are you worried about going to hell? Doc, after the things I've seen and the way I've been persecuted in this life, I don't believe there is a God. And without God, there's... can't be hell. You know why? Why? Because we're already living in it. Tell me about your second dream. I can't believe I got stuck with the graveyard shift on Halloween again. I told them not to do this to me. What do you have against Halloween? Oh, that's right, kid. I forgot this is your first Halloween

on the police force. You'll see soon enough. Weird stuff happens on Halloween. Nah, don't tell me you're afraid of spooky things that go bump in the night. I'm not. I've just spent enough years stuck with this patrol to know what to expect. I've seen it all. It's human nature, kid. Halloween brings out the crazies.

You think they can get away with shit just because they're hiding behind tacky rubber masks. I'm telling you, on Halloween, we get more hooligans, more drunk, on the streets, more stupid pranks gone wrong, and a lot more abnormal calls. Abnormal? Like what? Any units on or near Highway 50? Please respond. This is Unit 13 responding. What's up, dispatch? Ambulance on the side of the road. If they need a boost, they should call roadside assistance.

The report didn't... Really? Then who called it in? Passing car. Said it looked empty. See what I was saying about abnormal calls, kid. All right, dispatch. We're on our way. I'm guessing they must have broken down or something.

The driver can't have gone too far. What exit did you say again? 47 and 150. All right. We'll be there in 10. Much obliged. Over and out. So, what do you think happened?

Don't know. If the EMTs broke down, why wouldn't they call it in? No idea. It's dark out tonight. Could be they were fixing a flat and the caller didn't see them. Makes sense. Should we turn on the sirens and book it just in case it's an emergency? Nah.

If it was serious, they'd have called dispatch themselves by now. I guess so. There's the rig up ahead. Yeah. And the back doors are wide open, just like the report said. Get the flashlight, kid. Let's check it out. Anyone there?

No answer. Something... Something doesn't feel right. Mm-hmm. Shine your flashlight on the floor. Okay. Oh, whoa, is that blood? That's a hell of a lot of blood for an empty rig.

Uh, Stan? It's everywhere. All over the walls, too. Damn. Stan. What? Look at the doors. What the hell could have made those?

scratches. Did they get in a fight with a honey badger or something? Yeah. I mean, this is a joke, right? This is some weird-ass hazing ritual, right? You probably do this to all the new recruits, right? I mean, you get an old rig, spray some fake blood everywhere, make up some BS about hating Halloween because of weird calls, get a dispatcher in on it. I have better things to do with my time than scare the new piece. We're probably both being pranked. This is just the kind of of crap Chief Rogers likes to pull. I mean, this is a lot of blood. And believe me, I've seen goryer crime scenes than you could ever imagine. This is way too much blood for just one person. It has to be fake. That's a relief.

What the hell was that? I'd wager it's Chief Rogers. I can see his eyes through the bushes, Probably going to come running towards us any second now. Care to turn the tables on him? Yeah? How? Turn off the flashlight. We'll slip out, crawl around the rig, and sneak up behind him when he comes for us.

All right, here we go. Be very quiet. He's still hiding. Now what? Wait and see. Oh, boy. This sure is scary. What do you think is going on, Dustin?

He's inside the rig. Come on, this is our chance. Boo, gotcha. Oh, Jesus Christ, what is that? What the hell are you doing, kid? What am I? What are you doing? How do you get the door shut? He's going to get out. Calm down. It's just a prank.

Didn't you see its cloths? Enough. It's just Chief Rogers with a mask and folk gloves. You're getting right. held up over nothing. Get out of the way. Let me open the doors. Gotta get him out before he suspends us both. I'm not moving. I don't care what you say. That thing isn't human. I mean, didn't you see what it did to the ambulance? We shouldn't have taken this call. We should have asked for backup. Calm the hell down, Dustin. He left through the driver's side door. He's probably going to try to sneak up on us again. Come on.

Check left. I'll go right. One of us is bound to get the leg up. No, I'm going back to the squad car. Look, whatever you think you saw, you're wrong. If you don't face him head on, you'll be the laughingstock of our precinct. Is that what you want? No. Occam's razor, buddy.

What's more likely that this is Chief Rogers in a costume? Or that it's some... Spooky monster. It's the chief. Right. So, let's show him who's boss. Go. Okay.

Nothing on my side. Holy mother of shit. That's no costume, Stan. That's no costume. Not this again. I don't care what anyone thinks. I'm going back. Dustin, come back here.

You're being the... Oh. In the rig! Now! I told you. I mean, you saw, right? That thing was way too tall to be human. Look out the window. Is it still out there? Yeah. What's it doing?

Just standing in our headlights. It's like he's mocking us. We're gonna die here. Wait a second. What? Get up. Look. Huh?

See there. His al-Aween mask is peeling off. You can see the rubber sticking out on the sides of his face. See? I told you it was just a prank. You're right. I can see skin. Oh, man.

I mean, you know this is all your fault, right? I mean, you got me all wound up. I'm going to go rip that mask right off. Roger's face. Hey, ugly. Ah, yeah. Enough playing around. I think you scared that kid

after death. Come on, take that mask off. Ah, it's really stuck on you tight, isn't it? Did you super glue it to yourself? Jeez, I can't. It's sort of a feel enough,

But... Ow! Get the doors! What happened? Why are you bleeding? Call it in. We need backup. I...

Shit, I forgot my radio in the car. Ah, you idiot! What happened? It bit me. But you said it was a joke. Uh... Get the cause. Here.

How could it bite you? You said it was a mask. It is a mask. It was coming off, too, but somehow... I think he's checking out the squad car. Stop staring and make yourself helpful. There should be a radio in the front of the ambulance. Shit, this really hurts.

Stan, I think that thing destroyed it. Oh, no way. I don't know what to do. This wasn't in my training. Come back over here. Tell me what's going on outside. Okay. He just broke into our car.

I think we left it unlocked. He's looking for something. Oh, no. What is it? My radio. He just crushed it. Now he's ripping out the car radio. Shit.

Did he get mine in the back? The broken one? That only works if you twist the antenna just right? Yeah. No. I don't think he saw it. What's he doing now? Standing in the headlights again.

Like he's waiting for something. Stan, your arms looking really nasty. Yeah. You ever watch nature documentaries? Sometimes. Why? Ever see the ones about Komodo dragons? No.

Komodo, so they're pretty slow, but their mouths are so full of bacteria. That when they bite their prey, they're pretty much guaranteed to die. I don't understand what you're telling me.

So they wait. They bite. They wait for the prey to die. and then they take a leisurely stroll to their fallen prey. You're such a nerd. Oh, help me up. I'm feeling a little lightheaded. Sure.

All right. Here's what we're going to do, kid. Listen closely, because I'm not going to tell you twice. Okay. I'm going to open these doors and start booking it down the highway. Okay? I've got a feeling our little friend out there. He's going to follow me.

Oh, hell, he's distracted. You sneak out the passenger door and you get your ass into the squad car. You call for backup. You hear me? Okay, but what about you? As soon as you've called for backup. You come for me. You got that kid?

Okay. Good. Are you ready? Here goes. Hey, Fluffy! How about some fast food? It looks like it's working. You, radio.

Where's the radio? Dispatch, do you copy? This is Unit 13 requesting immediate backup. Glenn... Shit, that's not working. Got a tray again. Dispatch, do you copy? This is an emergency.

Reports the suspect is wearing a ballerina outfit and is armed. Shit, you heard that. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. 911, what's your emergency? Hey, sorry to bother you. This probably isn't really an emergency, but my wife keeps pestering me about it.

Says I should have stopped to help, but we're tourists, and we're late for a Halloween party. Stop giving her your life story and tell her what we saw. Right. So, just before Exit 151, there's an overturned ambulance and squad car with its lights on. I would have stopped, but like I said, we were running late. Besides, ain't no one out there.

It's kind of weird. Thank you. We'll send someone over to investigate. That's very gruesome. Yeah. Do you think, perhaps, whatever infected the man in your dream, the virus that made him into a monster, could symbolize your futile struggle against the man's society has decided you are? No.

No? I was probably just thinking about zombies. A lot of horror movies on during wreck time. You know, with Halloween coming and all. Okay. That may be. Why don't you tell me about another one of your dreams, Alan? My parents left me alone for Halloween when I was 10 years old. They weren't the kind of parents who left me alone lightly.

While they knew that I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself, they also knew that the world can be a dangerous place, especially when you live out on a farm three miles from town. They fussed and they fretted, and the only reason they left me there was because they had to attend a funeral they could not avoid. And the sensitive nature of the ceremony, which I'm not privy to, even all these years later, did not allow for children. So they left early that morning, repeating once more all the instructions they'd laid out for me. There was a frozen pizza in the fridge for supper.

If I had any problems, I was to call our closest neighbors. I was under no circumstances to attempt to unlock the gun safe. If something happened, once I'd called the neighbors, I was to hide in the basement under the stairs. I nodded while they drilled this into me, impatient for them to leave already so I could get on with my day. Unlike my parents, I was thrilled that I was going to be home alone. I had long since grown out of trick-or-treating and costumes. I'd never liked them all that much to begin with. And now that I was going to have an entire night to myself unsupervised, I could do what I all

always wanted to on Halloween. Watch horror movies. My mom didn't approve of my love of horror. She thought I was too young. Dad didn't care much, although he did tell me not to bother him with nightmares if I scared myself too bad. They had a lock on the TV

so that I couldn't watch any rated R movies, but I'd managed to figure out the code. It was the first four digits of our address. I was almost insulted they hadn't picked something more difficult. So that night, for the first time in my life, I was going to watch Halloween. It had been off limits to me for so long. My mother had successfully blocked every attempt on my part to see it,

that it seemed to me to be the holy grail of horror. This would be my coming of age moment. This would mark my entrance into adulthood. I was so ready. As night drew closer and the same time, sun began to sink. I got everything ready. I popped the popcorn. I put the pizza in the oven. I made a nest for myself on the couch with blankets and my favorite stuffed animal. For emotional support, don't judge me. And dimmed the lights. I waited for the film to come on.

I channel served impatiently, waiting for it to pop up. There it was. My heart leapt into my throat. Starting at nine o'clock, just ten minutes to go. I put the channel on, entered the code, and waited. The sun had finally set, and it was dark outside, except for the light down by the bin. It always came on automatically in the dark, and it provided some comfort for me when the darkness became too heavy. It was too far away, however, to shed light into the living room. All that I had was the blue glow of the screen. It made me shiver in the best way.

Just as the opening credits were rolling by, something changed. It was almost imperceptible at first. I glanced around the room, confused. Nothing looked out of place. Everything was as it should be. I tried to focus on the movie, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something weird was going on. I happened to glance out the window, and I saw what was wrong. The light by the bins was out.

I could only remember one other time that it had been out, when I was about eight, and my dad had gotten it fixed as soon as he could. He didn't like to go without that light. Even in the worst blizzards, I could see it there, beckoning to me. I'd never be lost as long as it was lit. But it wasn't lit now. My stomach started to feel strange, like it was filled with warm. worms. I briefly considered calling the neighbors, but dismissed the idea. I didn't seem to qualify

as an emergency. Besides, if I called them just because of a broken light, they'd think I was still a child, and mom and dad would never let me stay home alone again. I turned my attention back to the TV, and resolutely ignored the creeping sensation in my stomach. Eventually, the story caught my attention, and I became absorbed in it, watching Michael Myers stalk a hapless Jamie Lee Curtis without detection. I was leaning forward, eyes glued to the screen, stuffed bear clutched to my chest, when I noticed a subtle shift in the room.

My gaze whipped towards the window. The light by the bins was back on, which would have been fine, except that now somebody was standing underneath it. My heart dropped into my stomach. He was far enough away that I couldn't make out much, just that he seemed to be wearing something long and dark. There was something weird on his head. Was it a mask? Oh my God. Was it Michael Myers? That jolted me out of the paralysis that had temporarily seized me. Terror coursed in my veins to mirror the tears coursing down my face.

I grabbed our landline to dial the neighbor's number. There was no dial tone. I started to hyperventilate. Strange wheezing noises came out of my mouth, but to me they were muffled, as though I'd shoved cotton in my ears. I felt extremely lightheaded and thought for a moment I was going to pass out.

All the while, I hadn't taken my eyes off the man under the light. I didn't dare. He still stood there. and I wondered if he could see me inside the house. In desperation, I tried dialing the number anyway, praying that somehow it would work. People do stupid things when they're scared. That's the first stupid thing I did. I wasted time on something I logically knew wouldn't work. The minute stretched out as I dialed again and again and again, first for the neighbor, than for the police. I couldn't accept what was happening. I just couldn't. Finally, once I'd well and

truly begun to accept that nobody was coming, that I was completely isolated on this farm in the middle of nowhere, he moved. He began taking long strides toward the house, his robe. I could see now that's what it was, billowing behind him like a living, breathing shadow. I watched in helpless horror as he got closer. Closer. I could make out his features. What I thought must be a mask slowly took form until I recognized it as a deer skull,

yellowing with age and spiderwebbed with cracks. Its antlers were dripping blood. It angled towards the living room, right where I was standing, and it came still closer. It stepped right up to the window. Now I could see that the deer skull was no mask. It was a head.

There were no eyes hiding underneath, no flesh inside it, but it was still the head of whatever strange creature had come creeping out of the night. The black robe shifted, and out came a hand. Its skin was gray and withered, almost like poorly cured, leather, and it was tipped in long black nails. It raised its ghastly hands to the window and, slowly began to drum its fingers against the glass. It had no eyes, but it was staring at me, watching me. In that split second, an instinct I didn't know I had kicked in, and I slowly inched for the doorway. I knew what I had to do.

It was my last resort. Whatever was outside the window seemed to know my intentions. Its hand disappeared into its cloak, and it turned to walk around the house. It was walking in the direction of the front door. I made a mad dash to the hutch where my parents keep all our important records, birth certificates, social security cards, and so forth, and felt along the side. My fingers quickly found the key taped there, and I ripped it out, then ran for the gun cabinet.

My dad kept it in the kitchen. I'm still not sure why. Seems like an odd place for a gun cabinet, doesn't it? But at that moment, I was grateful. The kitchen doorway gave me a direct line of sight to the front door. I heard a clopping sound that must have been coming from the cement floor of the garage. I had to act fast. I shoved the key in the lock and yanked open the gun cabinet.

Although I was not allowed to touch the guns on my own, my father had taught me about them. Anyone who lives in a home with guns should know how to use them in an emergency, he said. And, more importantly, know how to avoid killing yourself when handling one. I grabbed the 12-gauge and three shotgun shells. I heard the clopping footsteps coming up the stairs to the front door. I knelt down to push the shells into the loading flap. My hands were shaking so hard they slipped, and the shotgun shells fell to the kitchen floor. Shit!

The doorknob began to turn, but it was stopped short by the lock. The handle jiggled as the creature on the other side tested it. I didn't spare a glance. I knew I didn't have time. My hands fluttered across the floor until I found one. Just one, shotgun shell. I slid it into the loading flap. and pushed the shell straight up.

I held the action release button and pumped the slide just about as hard as I could. I stood up and slid the butt of the gun into the hollow of my shoulder blade and aimed it at the front door. I could barely hold the gun straight I was shaking so hard, but I stood firm. I heard a horrible rending sound

and the lock practically exploded off the door, leaving the doorknob hanging on for dear life. I jumped at that. my finger squeezing down on the trigger before forcing my grip to relax. I only had one shot. I had to make it count. The front door swung open and the creature stepped inside. It was easily seven feet tall.

To ten-year-old me, it looked like a giant. Its hooves peeked out from under its black robe. They were torn and bleeding, covered in a sickly gray fur, besieged by flies. The smell of that thing was terrible. It made me feel sick to my stomach. If hell has a smell, I think that would be it. The thing took a step towards me, totally unfazed by the gun in my hand. It tilted its head to the side, as though curious about me. I stared up into the black pits where its eyes should be, and understood that whatever this creature could do to me, whatever horrors it could show me, would be a thousand times worse than anything I could ever

watch in a horror movie. It took one more step in my direction, its withered hand reaching out of its robe. I forced myself to take a deep breath in, hold it, and release it evenly. As I did, I squeezed the trigger. Slowly. Slowly. The shotgun practically exploded in my hands. The creature went flying backwards. I was unable to truly appreciate the sight

because I, too, went flying backwards. The recoil from the gun far too violent for me to handle. I was knocked on my ass and the gun clattered to the floor. The breath was knocked out of me and stars dotted my vision. I must have knocked my head against something. As I lay on the floor, trying to recover from the blast and the knock to my head, I heard a high-pitched screeching noise, like grating metal.

It was muffled, which I later realized was due to the fact that I'd almost blown out my eardrums from the shotgun blast. There was a scuttling sound, and a crash was silent. Gingerly, I raised up on my elbows. and looked at the front door. The creature was gone. I staggered to my feet and made my way toward where it had fallen. The floor was covered in what looked to be blood, although it was more black than red, more slimy and viscous than I would have expected. In the center of all the mess, I saw something yellow peeking up at me. I lifted it and looked at it closer. It was a bone

fragment from the beast's terrible head. The telephone was miraculously working when I dialed for the police a few minutes later. They were out at the farm in five minutes, which is no easy feat in rural country. They cataloged the mess on the floor and my shell-shocked face. I didn't think to show them the bone. It was clutched in my palm, its sharp edges cutting ribbons of my skin. I didn't even notice it anymore. They took me to the police station and managed to get a hold of my parents, who immediately started the long drive back to town. While we waited, the police questioned me over and over again. What had happened? I told them my story. They didn't believe me. My parents didn't believe me either. In the end, the police and my parents constructed a narrative for me. A wolf had somehow

managed to break through the front door, and I'd shot it, at which point it dragged itself off somewhere to die quietly. Never mind that a wolf couldn't have broken through the door in such a way. That detail was easily overlooked, particularly because I'd blown a huge chunk of the door off with the shotgun, so there was no real way to tell what the beast had done. Things changed in our house after that. I thought I'd get reprimanded for using the gun, after dad had specifically specifically told me not to, but the phone company had confirmed that the lines were down for several hours, and so there really hadn't been a way for me to call for help. There were no punishments, but there were several uncomfortable sessions with a child psychiatrist, which certainly

seemed like punishment at the time. My parents kept a tight leash on me after that. No horror movies, a strict 10 o'clock curfew each night, no reading Stephen King. I tried to block the memory from my mind. After all, nothing in the world can change what happened. And even after all these years, that thing has never resurfaced. I wanted nothing more than to forget about it, to pretend it never happened. But last month, I was reading up on old urban legends to get a feel for the tone I needed. When I came across a blog post on an old website, it was a little bit of the world.

It was dated 17 years ago, back before we even had high-speed internet on the farm. And it went a little something like this. A few nights ago, I did something terrible. Something that I can't take back. And now I don't know what did. I found it in an old book in the library. This ritual. Nonsense, but I thought it could make for a fun night.

After all, what better to do on Halloween than light some candles, put on a black robe, and chant a spell that's supposed to raise a spirit from deep within the earth? I thought it was some harmless fun. But it wasn't. It raised up something evil. Something with a deer skull and dark robes and rotting fur. And now I can't fix it. Please, if anyone is out there who knows about this, I need your help.

I don't know what book the ritual came from. It doesn't have a title. All I know is that the ritual was supposed to raise the spirit of Halloween. And it did. It really, really did. So tonight, on this Halloween, I'm sitting here in my easy chair. I've checked my doors and I've checked my windows. I have a shotgun.

My dad's old 12 gauge, in fact, sitting on the mantle, locked and loaded. The fragment of a bone that I've kept all these years sits on the desk in front of me, as though waiting to be returned to its rightful home. I've poured myself a beer and have written this for all of you. I don't know how it happened, or why it looked for me. but now I know the name of the thing that came for me that night, so long ago. I know how it was brought into the world, but damn if I know how to take it out. So, please do yourself a favor and stay indoors on this Halloween night.

The spirit of Halloween walks this earth still, and next time it may come for you. Tell me about your childhood, Alan. Not a chance, Doc. Besides, it was in all the papers. And if you want a more in-depth detailing, a lady wrote a book about the murders. Since I was convicted of them, there were three chapters about me and my life.

She doesn't think I did it, by the way. You must be speaking of Ms. Marsden. Yeah. Have you read her book? The Summerhurst Murders by Lily Marsden. I have. I thought it was excellent. I had hoped it would help you with your appeal.

She dove heavily into the lack of physical evidence, witnessed tampering by the cops, other inconsistencies in the case. It was well written. Yeah, she was really nice. She said there's a podcast about me. Just me, the whole thing. Do you know what a podcast is?

I do. They sound really cool. Tell me about another one of your dreams, Alan. It wasn't a surprise when Kaylin started handing out invitations to her Halloween party before home room. What was a surprise was that I received one. I stared at the orange envelope she was holding out toward me and then up at her. For me? Kalin and I had never been friends.

Acquaintances, sure. It was impossible not to be in a school as small as ours. But beyond a little polite small talk, We'd hardly spoken. She was pretty and popular, and I was less so. There was no bad blood or anything like that. She'd always been nice enough to me, but not party invitation nice. Yeah.

She gave the envelope an encouraging shake. Everyone's invited. It's Saturday at 7. My parents won't be home. Oh, I think I'm working until 9. I trailed off and took it hesitantly. She'd written my name across the front and careful calligraphy. It's our senior year and all.

I just thought it'd be nice if her whole class got together. You don't have to come. I couldn't help but feel a bit bad. It was obvious this meant a lot to her. The whole last year of school things seemed to be getting to people. Oh, no, I'll be there, I guess. I'll just be late. No problem.

People are just going to be. going to show up whenever they can. It's going to be so much fun. I didn't think it would be and immediately regretted saying I would go. There were only a dozen of us in the class and I didn't have any real friends in it. I was sure I'd be the lonely loser standing beside the punch bowl waiting for my parents to come pick me up. When I told mom about it that night, she could hardly hide her relief. She'd always worried I was too much of an introvert in missing out on those special high school memories that apparently made these the best years of my life. That's great, Tenney. When is it? Saturday, but I have a shift at the movie theater right before,

and I'd probably be late anyway. It's not like I have a costume either. We can go shopping Friday. You can't stay hold up in your room in front of your computer screen forever, Tanique. You're going. Oh, come on. It's one night. It won't kill you. I groaned and looked over to my dad, who was watching TV with far more interest than the sitcom on the screen called for. Dad, tell her she's being ridiculous. He slapped his knee and stood up with an exaggerated shake of his beer can. Oh, would you look at that? I'm empty. I'm just going to go grab another. Excuse me, ladies. He scampered out of the room while I glared at his retreating back.

Discussion over. You're going. Mom's mind could not be changed, despite all of my arguments over the next few days. My one small victory was managing to get out of going costume shopping. I dug around in my closet until I'd thrown together something that resembled a generic anime schoolgirl outfit complete with cheap pink wig. Hardly perfect, but it was simple. Would it make me stand out and it would keep Mom off my back? Everyone in class couldn't wait for Saturday night.

All they talked about was what they were going to do. dress up as and what kind of entertainment Kaelan would have. I'm going to be a black cat. Can't go wrong with a classic. Lame. Jenna hissed playfully and everyone laughed. Even I was roped into a few discussions and shared my own costume idea, but I can never fake my enthusiasm for long and they drift away again.

I was certain it was just a taste of what the party would be like. Surrounded by people having a great time, all while wanting nothing more than to go home, By the time Saturday rolled around, I was anxious and stressed. It made me clumsy at work, and I was spilling popcorn and soda all over the floor behind the concession stand. The customers thought it was funny, but my manager did it. He threatened to send me home early if I didn't get it together. The fear of having to go to the party made me shape up pretty quickly. I even offered to stay late in case he needed someone to do any inventory or extra cleanup, but he didn't need the help.

Mom was waiting for me in the car outside, costume folded up neatly in the back seat. Don't look so glum, chum. It's a party, not an execution. I tried pleading with her one last time. Please, Mom, don't make me go. It'll do you good, Tenney. You need to spend time with people your own age. Just stay for a couple hours, okay? That's all I'm asking. You might even have a... Good time.

I sighed in resignation and rested my head against the window. Just two hours. Just get through two hours. Kalyn lived in a large McMansion in a gated community. Mom parked at the end of her long driveway and waved me into the back to change into my costume. No one's going to see you. It's dark. The windows are tinted and no one's around. Now hurry.

She left me standing on the curb after telling me to try and enjoy myself and wishing me luck. I must have stayed there for almost an hour, kicking my feet against the gravel and trying to will myself to head up to the party. My anxiety kept me in place. I knew it wasn't going to end any time soon. Kalen had said people could even spend the night if they wanted, so trying to avoid it completely wasn't going to work. I can only imagine what people would think if they saw me to do. just standing in the dark by myself. It was enough to finally get me going.

Music, soft and seasonally spooky, drifted down the drive to greet me as I turned and trudged reluctantly towards the house. It was set far back, well away from the road and neighbors, and surprisingly dark, the only light coming from the open barrage. Kalin really knows how to set the mood.

Too nervous to knock on the unlit front door, I crept towards the garage. In the glow of the single naked bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling, I saw a girl bent over an apple bobbing bucket. Her back was to me and she was face down in the bucket, her arms at her side. I recognized the flaming red braid running down the back of her witch's costume as being Pipers. I shuffled my feet a bit to let her know I was there so she wouldn't be startled, but she remained still.

After a moment, I whispered her name. Piper? She didn't move. How long had it been since I walked up? Thirty seconds? A minute? Why hadn't she come up yet? And why was she out here doing this by herself? My heartbeat was starting to quicken. I imagined this turning into some kind of scene out of Carrie where this had all been set up as a trap to embarrass me somehow. Piper, are you okay? I carefully scanned the garage for any hiding spots that people could jump out at me from. It was stupid. None of my classmates had ever really bullied me, but they'd also never included me in anything. And now, to walk up to something like this,

I didn't know what to think. Piper still hadn't moved. I inched forward, my breathing loud and shaky in my ears, and reached for her as my eyes darted back and forth from her to the room around us. No one leapt out. No one shouted or laughed at me. There were no phones shoved in my face to film my reaction, Piper simply slid sideways when I gently shook her shoulder and fell to the floor.

Her face was a swollen, shiny mess of blisters. Some had already split and thin streams of blood dripped down her cheeks like tears. Her lips were cracked and oozing. Her staring, sightless eyes, so red. I screamed and reeled back, bumping into the bobbing bucket. Some of the liquid sloshed upwards in a draw. splashed against the back of my hand. It burned immediately and continued to, even after I'd wiped it frantically on my skirt.

My skin turned bright pink where it had landed. I didn't know what it was, only that it wasn't water. I ran around Piper's body to the door leading inside. Hurryedly, I yanked it open and shouted for someone to come help, that there's been an accident. The same slow, creepy Halloween music was playing throughout the house and the kitchen that I stepped. stepped into was dimly lit with strings of pumpkin lights. Candles that smelled strongly of pumpkin spice burned on every counter. That, combined with what I'd just seen, turned my stomach at a nauseous wave. I put a hand over my mouth and stumbled forward. There were muffled voices

coming from the next room and I called for them, begging them to come to me. I followed that same stupid string of smiling pumpkin lights down the hall to the living room. Jenna was the first person I saw. She had worn her black cat costume just like she said she would. She was up against the far wall, held in place by a single large spike driven through the back of her neck. A piece of paper was taped to the wall beside her, pin the tail on the cat. In front of her, Benny, Rod, and Shea were staggering around. They were making terrible wet gurgling sounds and moaning as they bumped into each other, the walls, the furniture. They each had a nail through their right hands. The paper cut out of a cat's tail fluttered from the sharp end. I gasped and Shay turned towards me.

Deep, angry gouges covered her eye sockets. She was weeping blood and eye core. She opened her mouth and wailed, revealing the torn stump of her tongue and sending a spray of red down her A few drops scattered across my front and I tripped over myself to back away. Benny and Rod had matching injuries. Oh God. Oh fuck, what happened to you guys? I groped at my pocket for my cell before remembering I changed in mom's car. My phone was still in my work pants. Just wait. I'm going to find a phone and call for help.

I didn't know if they really heard me. They kept making those awful sounds and shuffling around, too caught up in their shock and pain. I wasn't thinking, I was just running, looking for a phone. I dashed up the nearby steps shouting for Kalen or anyone else. It never even crossed my mind that whoever had done this to my classmates could still be inside. All I was thinking about was finding a phone. The upstairs opened into a loft. A card table had been set up with a piece of piece of people.

paper in the middle of it that said spin the bottle. An empty wine bottle was lying on its side on top of it. Four more of my classmates were seated around it, Raquel, Brian, Jason, and Monique. Three of them were slumped forward, covered in deep gashes. Blood stained their costumes and pooled around their feet in dark puddles. They each had knives duct taped between their hands. Brian was half out of his chair. His glasses were hanging from warm. one ear. In the middle of his forehead was a single bullet hole. A fifth chair had been knocked over and my gaze followed the trail of blood that led away from it down the hall. I felt along the wall for a switch with shaking fingers and turned the light on. Brooks was sitting against a door not far from me.

His head was tilted low against his chest, but he was still breathing in short, shallow gasps. Like the others, he was covered in deep cuts and had his hands tapered. around a knife. Brooks. I crouched beside him, all too aware that I was standing in his blood. His eyes fluttered open, but remained unfocused. Tanique? What happened?

I won. Had to play. Brian didn't want to. Do you have your phone? I need to call the cops. I'm going to get us help. But he wasn't listening. Spin and stab.

Those were the rules. If we didn't... He made a weak gunshot sound. Who made you? Who shot Brian? Look at me, Brooks. I don't know. Somebody. They had a mask on. Raquel stabbed me first.

Then I stabbed Monique. We didn't want to get shot. His voice was becoming higher, more plaintive. I didn't want to. They were my first. friend. I didn't. I didn't. His voice faded and his head rolled back against the wall with a thump. I rocked back on my heels, my vision blurring behind confused, frightened tears.

Leaning heavily on the wall for support, I pulled myself to my feet again, all the while staring at Brooks. What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? My legs didn't want to work. My brain felt fogged over like I was in. some kind of dream. I wanted to puke and scream and run, but I just stood there staring at my dead classmate while I cried. At the end of the hall, one of the doors opened slightly with a creek and someone whimpered from within. No more. I can't take any more. Tonight, is that you? Kaelin? I stepped over Brooks's body on my tiptoes, muffling a sob with my knuckle and teetered drunkenly toward Kailen's voice.

The door swung open easily and I gripped the frame to keep myself upright. It was a bedroom, Kalins, softly lit by a small lamp on her bedside table. She was sitting at the end of her bed. Her fairy princess costume torn and blood spattered. She had cuts all over her arms and a long red line running down one of her cheeks. There was a knife lying across her lap. When she saw me, she smiled. I'm glad you finally made it.

As I opened my mouth to ask what had happened, Kaelin lifted her right hand as if defending herself against someone standing over her. She picked up the knife in her left hand and drove it through her upraised palm. She flinched and a few tears slid down her cheeks. Her smile while pain remained. While I watched Frozen in horror, she ripped the knife out of her hand and sank the tip into her shoulder. Stop! I rushed toward her and grabbed her arm. It was wet and slippery beneath my fingers.

She yelped and turned the blade towards me. I jerked back a few steps, absently wringing my shirt and my stained hands. Stay over there. It'll be better if you do. What are you doing? What happened? She dragged the knife across her right knuckles in short, quick strokes and held her hand up for me to see. Do these things?

look like defensive cuts to you? What? They need to look real. Like I fought off my attacker. Do they? I gaped dumbly at her. Well, I'll suppose we'll find out. I...

Everyone is... I know. It was a little more rushed than I'd like. But the roofies didn't last as long as I thought they would. I'm glad I thought ahead enough to make sure people showed up at different times. would have been a complete disaster otherwise. Ruthies? Well, yeah.

It's not like I could have gotten everything done if they were awake. It was just a little, I promise. The matter of fact, way she said it sent goosebumps up my arms and neck. You. Kalin maintained eye contact while she stabbed herself in the leg. Everyone likes to start a party with a drink. I gave myself a smaller dose this more. morning. Needed it in my bloodstream.

You killed them? They were your friends. A hot, tight feeling gripped my chest. I'll make new ones, don't worry. You did all of this yourself? The question squeezed itself past the lump in my throat. She nodded and there was pride in the gesture. Yep.

I'm gonna call the cops. I backed out of the room until I hit the hall. way wall, never taking my eyes off of her, afraid she'd attacked me from behind. But she didn't follow. Oh, don't worry. I did that a little after you got inside. Her calmness against her battered and bloodied appearance was so off-putting and I froze again. Oh, I told them that my weird loner classmate dressed up like a schoolgirl drugged my guests and started attacking them. I just barely woken enough to hide and call them. As if to punctuate her, words, the shrill cry of sirens sounded in the distance. I could feel the color drained from

my face and I sank to the floor as they got louder and louder. Car-tire squealed to a halt outside. The sirens were roaring now. Kalin smiled and shrugged. Just to see if I could get away with it. And then she began to scream. That one, that one I do believe is related to a horror movie, have watched. Crazy, though, right? It is. Your mind is very creative. Yeah, they always told me I had a good imagination. Think about what I could have been if I had never been accused of those murders. Or if the, uh, planted evidence could be proved conclusively, you know? I do think about that. I'm very sorry. I could have been a writer or an actor. Maybe I could have had one of those podcast things.

Alan, you don't know what's waiting for you on the other side. Maybe you will have those things. You really believe that? Do you remember any of your other dreams? For one night of the year, each and every year at Halloween, I stop being me. The name my parents gave me is Max. The name I give myself this one special night of the year is ghost.

He is me and I am him. Except it's not that simple. In fact, it's very complicated. Sometimes I think we are the same person. Other times, I am sure that we are two different, distinct people trapped inside the same brain. We share the same body at any rate, Max's body, such as it is. Right now, none of this matters. Right now, it is Halloween and I am wasting time.

My time. Right now, it is time for ghost to wake up. Before I can become ghost, I have to perform a ritual. Think of it like a caterpillar building a cocoon. tomb for itself, so that it can metamorphose into a butterfly. There are things that have to be done. The body, or the vessel, as I prefer to think of it, must be prepared, cleansed. The ritual starts in the bathroom, as many rituals do, with a knife and a mirror. I see myself hunched naked over the bathroom's sink, staring at a

my skinny reflection in the harsh overhead lights as I furiously jerk myself off with one hand. With the other hand, I drag a knife across my abdomen, making deep trenches in my already ridged and scarred flesh. The juxtaposition of pain and pleasure burns through my body like fire and I spasm. While my weak and pale body convulses, I can feel my wings unfurl. And I am ready to slough off this pathetic cocoon. I am ready to fly. Afterwards, I use butterfly stitch tape to close the wounds. I wash multiple times.

I wipe the sink clean of my blood and semen. I am meticulous, leaving no trace of myself behind. The white porcelain gleams at me in approval. My vessel is now clean, inside and. and out. The preparations continue in my bedroom, Max's childhood bedroom, because Max does not have the income to afford to rent or live alone, and so he lives with his mum and dad. Our mum and dad, as if you couldn't have predicted that. I lock the door, switch on the TV. A hammer horror movie plays softly in the background as I stare at myself in another mirror.

A floor-length one this time, studying my naked body with a dead, blank expression on my face, observing how angular and thin and small I am, how soft my skin like moulded wet clay. I open a drawer and slowly bring out a box containing a set of face paints. I carefully circle each of my eyes with thick black makeup. up so that the whites of my eyeballs stand out against my face in stark contrast. Max has blue eyes, by the way, but Ghost's eyes have no colour, because in the dark, no one can see them anyway. I pick up the clean, white, crisp bed sheet bought specially for this one night. I use my sharp hunting knife to carve two crude eye holes into the fabric. Then,

I slip the sheet over my head. There is a moment of readjustment, a shifting of perspective. Our body sinks to the floor and we close our eyes. When I open them, Max is no more. I am not Max. I am Ghost. Ghost is a better version of Max. Ghost is faceless and powerful.

Ghost wanders the night undetected, gliding through the streets like a spirit bound to the earth, but beholden to none. I wish I could be ghost all the time, but life, well, life has other ideas. Life wants me to be Max. Max, an unemployed, 27-year-old college dropout who lives with his parents. Max, who has never even kissed a girl, let alone had sex.

If I were to ask Max to be honest with himself, he would say that it seems like an awkward, dirty thing for people to do to each other anyway. Figures. Max is still a virgin. This doesn't seem to bother him much, but it does bother me. Sex is how you prove to the world that you are a real man. Max is not a real man Ghost is a real man Max struggles to find the jokes that other people laugh at

funny Max exists on the fringes of everything unsure of whether he is happy or not he doesn't feel much he just exists in the same way that a chair or a rock or the sky exists, but doesn't feel. A fact of life, but not part of it.

Scenery, stage furniture, not a player on the stage. In short, Max is a total loser. Until, that is, Max becomes Ghost. Like I said, it only happens once a year. Ghost is set free on how. Halloween, and God does it feel good to get out there. Smell the autumn air, mingle with other people. I can tell you, waiting for 364 days for my next chance to take the wheel is difficult. It gets increasingly difficult as Max grows older.

Sometimes I think I can reach through the wall that separates Max and I and break it down and then take over his feeble mind and just be ghost whenever I want. Something keeps the wall in place. I don't know what it is. It gets weaker every year, but it's there. A safeguard of sorts, and I can't break through it. So for now, Halloween is all I get, which means that tonight is the night,

my night. And I am ready to come out and play. I rise to my knees and take. I rise to my knees and take in a deep exulting breath. On my way out of the door, I pick up a big plastic candy bucket round and deep enough to obscure the hunting knife, which I hide carefully beneath a layer of plastic wrapped candies. I sling the bucket handle over my wrist, making sure the white gloves I've purchased are fitted on snug type. I take a moment to say goodbye to the trappings of Max's life, feel a sudden,

sudden surge of sadness and then of anger for the way his pathetic existence has turned out. Don't blame me, Max says softly in the recesses of my mind. It's not my fault. Life had other plans. But none of that matters, not this night, my night. I growl a fuck you to Max and then step out into the dark. The street outside is chaos, overrun with people in costume. Children scream and shout, adults laugh and chatter amongst themselves. Sugar-jacked teenagers ride around on BMX bikes, jeering as each other obnoxiously.

Witches hold hands with zombies, ghouls, and black cats chase after each other, whooping in delight. Mummies and murderers examine the spoils of their trick or treating. The smell of wood smoke lingers in the ear. air and hot chocolates and wet leaf mulch and candy. My heart thumps in my chest. Anticipation courses through me. It feels so good to be alive right now. I'm high on freedom. A small boy catches my eye as I close my front door and stand, surveying the road from my front porch. The boy looks familiar somehow. He is dressed as a red devil, his face painted a deep scarlet, the same

colour as fresh blood. He wears red flashing horns on a band across his head. A long arrow-pointed red tail sticks out of the seat of his pants. His makeup has smudged around his mouth, presumably because he's been eating chocolate or toffee or some other sticky substance. The whites of his eyes gleam brightly in the light of his plastic jack-a-lantern, which he holds tightly in a small, chubby hand. He also clutches a plastic devil's fork with a trident at the end in the other hand. We stare at each other for a while, the devil kid and me. I know he cannot see my face because it is hidden beneath the bed sheet. Still, the boy smiles at me from across the street, and I do not like the smile. It is a knowing smile, a smile of malfeasance, the smile that little boys in kindergarten

get when they are about to bully or torment one of their peers. Max knows a lot about bullying. Ghost does not. I do not allow people to bully me. Max whispers sadly again from the distance. He knows. He knows about us. You can see it in his eyes. I slowly raise my free hand and give the devil kid a good look at my middle finger. He grins at me and I drop my arm, disgusted with myself for wasting valuable time. I move into the street and disappear into the crowds, looking back once at the devil kid who stands stock still, staring after me. Like he's seen a ghost.

I chuckle to myself. The sound is hollow beneath the bed sheet. I let the night take me where it wants to. I see the world from behind two roughly cut holes which act like picture frames, turning everything I see into a constantly shifting, stereoscopic work of art. It's a better way to look at life if you ask me through two holes.

It's more manageable somehow. The sound of my own breathing is muffled and heavy against the sheet. I can feel moisture building up, coating my face with a thin sheen of sweat. Max read somewhere in a book once that elegance is the perfect disguise for our violent nature. Max didn't understand what that meant, but I kind of agree with the sentiment, although it isn't elegance that disguises my nature. It's a sheet. A simple, clean white bed sheet, one that covers me from head to tone. I know I look both ridiculous and faintly menacing, memorable yet faceless.

A black. People don't remember the guy in the sheet, a humble square of fabric, the perfect disguise. The knife in my bucket whispers sweet promises to me as I relax into the rhythm of the night. getting used to my body again after such a long time in captivity. These are my arms. These are my legs. This is my skinny, scarred stomach. These are my thin, cold fingers.

I glide and I drift, and I attach myself loosely to different groups of people. With so much noise and movement all around, people don't often notice the ghosts trailing after them as they move from door to door. When they do start to pay attention to me, I detach myself. The neighbourhood around where I live is reasonably well lit, but there are enough shadows for me to fall back into when I start to feel to exposed. I float around a little until I find another excitable cluster and then merge seamlessly. There is safety and numbers, but also anonymity.

I am less obvious as part of a group than I would be walking the streets at night on my own. I've thought about all this, you see. I've had time to plan and perfect my technique. As I walk, I feel my muscles warm up. I flex my fingers one by one and roll my head around on my shoulders, loosening off the tightness that has built up there for the past year. Max hunches over a lot, hoping to avoid attention. Ghost walks with his head held high, as high as he can.

Ghost is not ashamed of who he is. It doesn't take me long to choose a target. I have a narrow field of choice. I have a system that works for me too. My targets have certain markers that make them more desirable as praying. First, I pick houses that are a little off the beaten track, set back from the street away. Maybe they're not as well lit as some of the other houses around.

Secondly, I check for any obvious signs of a dog, a kennel, a leash hanging from a hook by the front door, a beware of the mutt sticker on the yard gate. Houses with big dogs make bad targets. Lastly, I look for signs of old age. Mobility rails by the front door, wheelchair ramps, cars, that elderly folks like to drive, modified vehicles. Kitch birdhouses in the front yard,

faded silk flowers in heat-scorched window boxes, widened front doors designed to let mobility scooters pass easily. Maybe the house has fallen into disrepair or has dated decor, signs, little signs. I spot these and make a hit list as I move around from street to street. And then the target presents itself, while the night is still young. I close in, hovering behind a huge group of kids and their parents like a great albino moth fluttering around a flame. They are making so much noise, they don't notice me at all. They move like locusts up the front pathway of number 425 Privet Avenue, which is a mile away from where I live as the crow flies.

It's the last house on the street And it sits squat and a little shabby In the dim light of a flickering street lamp That needs replacing The front doorbell is rung multiple times An already rotting pumpkin flickers weekly on the front porch A lukewarm invitation It looks sad and forlorn

And I can hear Max in his prison He sighs a long, drawn-out shuddering breath. He knows what is coming. There is a long pause. The impatient kids ring the bell several times more and start hammering on the door. The parents try and calm them down and fail. The hammering continues. Eventually there is movement from behind the stained glass of the porch, the sound of chains being lifted and locks being turned. The door creaks open and I feel my heart skip a beat. My mouth fills with saliva.

A tiny wizened old lady stands revealed in the orange light of her hallway, clutching a plastic bowl of hard, wrapped candies. She has short, tidy hair, huge, thick-rimmed spectacles, and a baggy, Halloween-themed, soft, knitted sweater that hangs about her tiny, frail frame, like a tepee. She pears out into the night, and the hand that holds the bowl shakes and quiverts. The kids are ecstatic and shout, trick or treat in unison, their war cry. It echoes out into the night, and I close my eyes, overcome for a moment. Sweat trickles down the sides of my face,

and I can tell that the palms of my hands are wet underneath my. gloves. A warm sensation builds in my groin, my shift from foot to foot. The kids attack the bowl of candies, nearly knocking the old woman off her feet, but she holds still, letting them grab fistfuls of wrapped, jewel-colored minutes. The parents supervised me a few feet back, admonishing the kids that they don't say thank you. Through it all, the woman smiles, and it is angelic. Her wispy white hair is clean and fluffy and lit up from behind like a haelam. I swallow and wait my turn.

The kids move on one by one, their appetite sated, and the parents follow after. Soon, all that is left is the house and the old woman and me. I draw in a deep breath, get ready to move in. I feel like a man about to run an important race. I tense, bracing myself. This is my moment. This is where I come to life. I can feel the weight of the knife in my plastic bucket. I can see the old woman lingering at the door, wondering who I am if I want any candy. She peers at me with poor vision and smiles a warm smile. Hello? Don't be shy now. There's plenty to go around. I've got to get rid of all of this by the edge of the end. of the night, come on over. I take a step forward.

The night seems to grow still, the air thicker somehow. A sense of calm purpose descends upon me like a cool trickle of water running down my back. Well, come on then. I can hear my blood pounding in my ears. I can hear Max moaning somewhere far away. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, not again. Don't let it happen again.

We promised it would never happen again, not after last time. His voice grows more and more distant, the closer to the house I get. Another step, and then another. My nerve endings feel like they are on fire. My mind feels curiously blank. Max goes quiet. All that is left is now hollow. I need blood to fill up.

up the space left behind. I need, I need, something tugs at my arm. Mr. I suck in a shocked breath, then freeze, then lower my gaze. Devil kid stands next to me, grinning, his face turned up to mine. His eyes bore into me wise and beady a hundred years too old for him. Caught off guard and mid-step, I almost fall over. Almost. I catch myself and the jolt brings me right back down to earth from wherever I had been before. Then suddenly I am filled with rage. My face grows hot with it. This has never happened before. I have never been interrupted before. I don't like interruptions. Fuck off, kid. He doesn't move. He pokes me gently in the hip with his plastic pitchfork. What's you doing, mister? Across from us, the old woman is muttering and shaking her

head, her smiles slipping, her eyes narrowing and discontent. She doesn't like being made to wait. She is getting ready to close the door. I can hear other trick or treaters approaching from a distance. My window of opportunity is closing. I put my face down low so that my eyes are level with the kids through the eye holes of the sheet. I said, Fuck off, kid. I slowly grasp the handle of the knife hidden in my bucket and pull it out so that the clean, newly sharpened edge

catches the weak light of the streetlap. His eyes grow wide, and then he giggles. The knife, which is longer than his head and wider than his arm, doesn't bother him. It's like it isn't even there. He never breaks eye contact with me. Are you going to kill her, mister? He licks his lower lip in what looks like excitement.

I blink. I am not stupid. Ghost is not stupid. He knows when to cut his losses. The situation has turned unpredictable. I am not stupid, not stupid, not like Max. I am not Max. I am.

Not. I straighten up and slowly take a step back, unsure of what to make of the devil, kid, but knowing that he is bad for business. Across the street, the door slowly closes the strip of orange light around the edges of the frame growing narrower by the second. I feel the loss of my target like my knife is twisting in my own heart. I think about the woman's hair, soft, snowy white, like an angel's. Mr. And is it my imagination, but the pupils in the devil kid's eyes? Are they?

They seem to be flickering, somehow, juddering from side to side, as if he is reading a book really, really fast. Only there is no book, there is only ghost, and this creepy fucking kid. There is something insectile about him, jerky and brittle. Devil kid's smile broadens. He wears braces that make him lisp. A piece of dirty pink bubble gum is caught in them. A thin, slimy string of the stuff dangles in his open mouth.

He chews on it and then sucks in the half-formed bubble so that it makes a loud, irritating pop in the night. Despite myself, I flinch. I can hear people coming closer and a horrible crawling sensation comes over me, My chest tightens. The space around me grows narrow and thin. I am losing control. I am losing control.

Max speaks up from his exile. Run. What? The crawling sensation intensifies a tightness spreading across my chest. I do not know if I'm speaking to the devil kid or the man trapped in my brain. You were, weren't you? You were going to kill the little old lady. naughty ghost

Devil kid croons and the smile keeps going and then going and going Run I stumble back My heart beats slows The smile is still going I watch in horror As the top of the kid's head starts to flip

backwards like he's a fucking pez dispenser Like someone has cut his head into With thin, impossibly sharp razor wire skull and all and his whole head above his nostrils opens up and there is something moving around inside his skull, something that wriggles and chitters and rides like a thousand pissed off centipedes. And underneath all this, the boy's tongue flaps around

in a slow, muddy parody of speech, and I can hear words deep and dark and perverted. You were going to kill her. The sound of it is so intense I can feel the ground beneath my feet rumble in response. Go! Run! I know what you are.

I know! A long, thin tentacles snakes out at his newly exposed skull and glides lazily through the air towards me. Run! This time, I do as I'm told. I turn on my heel and I run as fast as I can. The bed sheet slips from my head and flutters to the ground behind me. I don't stop to pick it up. I keep a hold on the knife, clutching it so hard it hurts and dodge through the crowds,

my head pounding with the terrible sound of the devil kid's voice. My once-blank mind is now filled, not with blood, but with the image of the boy's head unhinging and opening like a goddamn jewelry box, and with a disgusting memory of those writhing things inside of him, of the tentacle black and wet and hooked at the tip coming towards me. I run until my lungs burn and my legs feel like giving one. way underneath me. I curse Max for keeping our body in such bad condition. I am thin to the point of emaciation. I have nothing in the way of strength or natural fitness. That is why Ghost hunts the elderly and infirm. It's all he can handle, but that's okay. It's always been okay before.

Ghost knows his limits. I, we have always been realistic. Except that right now it's not fucking okay. It is not okay because Ghost is slowing down. And the devil kid is close behind me running with his arms and brain tentacle outstretched and his hideous flapping mouth bouncing around as he closes in the people around us laugh in delight such a convincing costume they say so imaginative would you look at that kid marvelous i scream unable to help myself it wrenches itself out of me a terrified whale that lingers in the air like smoke and no one even bats an eye because it's halloween you see and this is all par for the course.

And so nothing for it but to keep running until I see my house in the distance. My house, a retreat, a sanctuary, a place for me to hide while I disappear back behind the wall in Max's mind where I know I will be safe because nothing ever happens to Max and the devil kid won't be after him.

All I have to do is something burning hot and wet slides around my ankle and tightens its grip. It yanks and I fall, hitting the ground hard and crying out, this is it, the thing has got me now, this is it. I remember my knife.

I whip my arm around and slash blindly at the thing wrapped around my ankle, but all I do is slash myself across the calf instead and howl in pain as hot blood spills out of the wound. More tentacles snake around my wrists and feet, pinning me in place in a star shape, pulling me torts like I'm stretched tight on a rack until I feel like my limbs are about to pop out of their sockets. I can hear my joints creaking and crackling under the strain.

I can hear my own voice, reedy and thin like Max's voice. A soft, insistent chewing noise makes itself heard in my right ear above the sound of my own distress, and I feel warm, wet breath on my cheek. There is a pop, and bubble gum and spittle attach themselves to my face. I stop moaning and start to cry. Then I am lifted slowly into the sky, suspended between the tentacles. The thing that has me pulsates slowly with an internal bloated rhythm.

There is silence for a little while as I stare at him, tears and snot rolling down my face. His eyes are now folded underneath his skull, pointing at the ground behind his ankles, but I can tell he is staring at me still somehow and I can tell he is smiling. A long, sinuous growth shoots up out of the kid into the night and winds itself around my head. This is not how it is supposed to end. This is not how things finish for ghost.

There is a tightening pressure around my skull and a creaking, cracking sensation. Blood begins to flood out of my nose, my eyes bulged. The pain is indescribable. The sound of bone fracturing and giving weight of pressure fills my ears. Still, I managed to chokingly carry on, denying my own death, calling out in fury and fear. The top of my skull shatters as if I were a soft-boiled egg, and someone had tapped a spoon smartly against my shafts. I die in a fanfare of blood and bone splinters. Go through. is dead. I am not ghost. I am, I am, devil kid who is impossibly tall now and not much like a child at all

reaches up and into the gory husk before him, feels around inside the mangled mass of flesh, finds something, grabs a hold of it, and pulls, and out of the mess, and into the darkness of Halloween night slithers the body of a man, a skinny, pale, weak and yet unblemished man whose skin is like soft, wet clay. It is me. It is Max. I am naked and I shivered covered in unspeakable, sticky, horrible things. I lay on the ground panting, sobbing with no idea of where I am or what has just happened. All I know for sure is one single thing that ghost is gone. A small voice rouses me from my days. Mr. There before me stands a small boy, a boy dressed like the devil with red face paint and a plastic red trident. He is holding

something white and clean in his free hand. I take it, my whole body convulsing with trauma. Here you go, mister. Better put this on before you catch cold. I take the white sheet, a white, clean sheet that has no holes in it, and I wrap it around me. What's your name, mister? Devil kid pops his bubble gum as he speaks. I think for a moment, what is? my name? Am I sure I know? I... I... I fight back tears. Who am I? Really? I can't... I... I can't... I... Oh,

wait. It comes back to me. My name is Max. With that, the small boy nods, as if confirming something. with himself, and then turns and walks away, swinging a candy bucket in one hand, a plastic fork in the other, whistling and popping his bubblegum until he disappears into the crowds, his red horns flickering in the dark. I am Max. Then instinctively I listen for ghost. And he isn't there. He isn't there. In stunned reliance, he isn't there. In stunned, leaf I lie on the floor, my face pressed into cool, damp grass and mud, the sheet covering my naked, thin body. I am cold, so cold, but I need to rest. I need to gather my energy for tomorrow, because tomorrow I have a call to make to the police. Tomorrow, I have bodies to dig up.

Just, wow. Don't have to be a doctor to interpret that one. No. No, you don't. So, ask me. Do you think you're a ghost? No. I know I'm Alan or Max, I guess. I know what I've done, and I know what I haven't done. There is no demon living inside me that I need to blame things on. I understand. Ten minutes, Dr. Grant. Then we got to pull you out.

It's getting rowdy out there. Everyone's waiting for the big event. It's really that crazy out there, huh? The nature of the murders has people very emotional. Even 26 years later. Yeah, I get it. Are you ready? Do you feel at peace?

I think it's very important that you do before you leave this room. Alan? There's one more dream I have to tell you about. Doc. All right. Go ahead and tell me, and we'll work through it together. Even though he had been born and bred in Kentucky, seven generations strong, Dad never shut up about his Irish heritage. Flame-haired and blue-eyed, he certainly looked the park. He'd sought out a wife of similarly Hibernian ancestry

and sired three ginger brats of varying hues, two boys and me. My eldest brother, Kevin, had pale red hair that could almost pass for blonde. Rory's curls were a darker copper, closer to dad's fiery locks. But only my scalp grew the true, angry red my father coveted for his progeny. But Scarlet Bow, my crowning glory, proved I wasn't a boy. That was such a point of grief for him that he pressured my mother for a fourth child until he drove her away, into the arms of another man.

one who wasn't obsessed with red-haired babies. Dad's dreams of Ireland didn't end with his children. Ever since he was a lad, he dreamed of owning a farm in County Cary. So, of course, when he had a decent win on the lottery, he deemed it the luck of the Irish in his terrible put-on accent and moved the whole family across the Atlantic to a dingy little Irish town on the borders of civilization. And that's where it all began.

The locals pretended no fondness for the brash American man and his three citified children. Dad groused about jealousy, said they resented him buying the farmland, that he'd beat out all the local offers with the sheer weight of his winnings. Truth be told, the former owner seemed quite content to be quit of the land. He wasn't even present to hand over the keys to the farmhouse when he arrived, jet-lagged and grumpy. Instead, the keys had been left in the battered tin letterbox at the end of the driveway, half-hidden by hedgerows of wild hawthorn in brackets. There had been some contention between the former owner and the locals, I gathered, once we'd settled down and I was

sent off to school. He'd given easement rights to a developer who had cut a road straight through part of the farmland to allow easier access to the cluster of identical faux cottages he was building. This had gone down particularly poorly with the superstitious locals, because the road had been bulldozed straight through what they called a fairy fort, a series of circular depressions in the land that held mythological and cultural significance. The event was still recent enough that people gave our family dirty looks when they encountered us around the steep, cobbled streets of the township, even though we'd had nothing to do with the defacement of the ancient site ourselves. As we settled into life on the farm, I grew to love the half-stone, half-timber farmhouse,

the rolling fields and the overgrown hedgerows and uneven stone walls. Dad claimed he was finally home, and his awful accent only got worse. But he threw himself into the farmwork with a passion that bore out his posturing, and he was good at it, much to everyone's surprise. Time passed slowly here, and the long days felt ripe with promise for a while. But as summer wained and fall approached, things took a turn for the worse. It was little things at first. Minor inconveniences like gates left unhitched so that the cows and sheep wondered where they didn't belong. Fingers were pointed at me since I liked to explore the farm in my spare time, but I was meticulously careful about shutting gates behind me.

When the third feedbag in a week split open while he carried it, and when the pumps for the water troughs kept breaking down faster than he could fix them, Dad began to suspect sabotage. It's those bloody yokels trying to make us think the spirits are angry. His theory was given weight when he caught one of the local children skulking near the fairy fort. He led the boy back to his family by his ear, shouting imprecations, at the lad's parents for trying an honest man's patience. The boy spat across his doorstep.

Twonters, that fouled up your pumps. That would be the she. Having none of their superstitious nonsense, Dad told them in no uncertain terms to stay the hell off his property on pain of prosecution or much worse. I knew that last was no idle threat. Dad had always loved his hunting rifles.

These days, he needed little excuse to unlock them from the... farmhouse's massive iron gun cabinet. But despite the warnings, bad luck or bad deeds continued to plague the farm. Spooked livestock crashed through fences, injuring themselves in their panic. The house cow stopped giving milk for three days. And when she did start again, it soured so quickly we had to throw most of it away one day later. And as harvest time approached, our barley paddock inexplicably turned. The tall stalks bowing brown-black heads, sticky and reeking of blighted rot. I don't know how they're doing it. His always florid face was splotched scarlet with anger to rival his hair.

But if it doesn't stop, I'll go into town and start banging heads together until I have some answers. Sat at the dinner table with my brothers. I said nothing. I especially said nothing of waking every morning to find my own fiery hair twisted and tangled into unnatural snarls, despite my neat bedtime braid. Nor did I broach the fact that I'd noticed something. Nothing in the old stone barn had ever been touched by our saboteurs, the same barn that was hung with twisted metal wind chimes of ancient, lacquened iron. As October slunk onward and the weather cooled, the entire family remained on edge. Kevin and Dad took turns patrolling the farmland at night with a rifle under one arm, as though they sensed the shenanigans on the farm would intensify as Halloween neared. Indeed,

the locals seemed particularly agitated by any mention of that approaching date when I ventured to ask whether it was celebrated here. Shady looks and whispered conversations followed us around the township when we visited for supplies. My only friend at school, Caitlin O'Nean, meal, stopped sitting with me at lunch after I asked whether there would be trick-or-treating, or even just a bonfire. When I confronted her about it, she simply burst into tears and ran away. Something was coming. But what it was, nobody would say. Desperate for answers, I poured through books in the library, and I hunted up and down our farmlands, swathed in thick woolens against the chill, looking for any clue as to what was going on. Whilst my father,

and brothers were still skeptical, suspecting only human hands were responsible for the ongoing sabotage. I wasn't nearly so certain. Three other places on the farm always remained untouched by the fay pranks of our antagonists, and hung from trees near those three places were the same twisted iron talismans found at the barn, chiming dully in the October winds. But before I could broach the subject with my dad, the bonfire was lit. We saw the towering column of smoke coming from the easement road as soon as we woke that morning. Dad roared at us to grab rifles and jackets, then ran for the barn to start up the tractor. Crammed precariously into the cab of the vehicle.

We drove through the paddocks, Rory leaping down from his perch on the side of the machine to open gates and let us through. The bonfire was a bright pyramid in the early morning mist, glowing red as my hair and belching, greasy smoke of up into the clear dawn sky. None of us mentioned the obvious. It had been built directly over the piece of road that bisected the ferry fort. People scattered as we approached, running for their own farm vehicles

and gunning them down the road. Kevin pointed his rifle into the sky and let off a warning shot, informing the trespassers, we meant business. As we got out of the tractor, Tad revved the engine, then put it in gear, heading straight for the bonfire.

Dad, what are you doing? But before any of us could do anything about it, the heavy farm vehicle plowed straight through the burning wood, scattering it in a huge cloud of orange and red sparks. It emerged on the other side, largely unscathed, and Dad jumped from it, battering at the smoldering tires with his coat. Grinning, blue eyes wild and bright in his sooty face, he surveyed the wrecked remains at the bonfire.

He rested a hand on my tangled head. About time we had a win. There was no school for me and Rory on October 31st. Dad decided to keep us home until this very fort nonsense was sorted out. And besides, he needed extra hands for building a makeshift fence and gate across the easement road, which he intended to padlock shut to restrict access. I guess after the gunshot and Dad's crazy stunt with the tractor, we hadn't expected any more trouble so soon.

So when we saw the first of the dead animals arranged around the fairy fort, we didn't know how to process what we were seeing. The townsfolk had certainly been busy in the night. Hundreds of sheep and cattle had been slaughtered, slit throats leaking blood into the grass where they lay, carefully arranged into three huge rings surrounding the sunken green shapes of the fairy fort. None of them were ours.

As we picked through the burgeoning hum of happy flies, we noted that none of the ear tags belonged to our farm. Kevin ran his hands through his hair in frustration. Call the cops, Dad. This is too much. This is just insane. There's a bit of paper in the middle of the road, held down with the rock. Picking through the rings of dead animals, Dad snatched up the note Rory had been gesturing to and read what was scrawled on it, his angry eyes viciously darting across the words. What does it say?

It says a load of bullshit is what it says. He says we have to kill two-thirds of our livestock and leave them in the middle of the road or else the fairy folk will come for us. Rory, Kevin, and I exchanged furtive looks before Kevin spoke. He didn't sound like my self-assured big brother. What are we going to do, Dad?

Sure as hell I'm not killing most of my animals to placate these assholes, boy. I'll be calling the police. Then all of us will be out here tonight, armed and waiting to put down any more trouble. It was the first Halloween I remember that wasn't happily full of pumpkin carving and hanging up bat bunting. Instead, Kevin and I rammed posts for the new fence while Dad and Rory dragged the bloating animal carcasses away by tractor. They laboriously piled them up and soaked them with gasoline in preparation for a grisorism. and unappetizing fall barbecue.

The local constabulary turned up as we stopped for lunch, and the orange-vested cop took statement from us, his nose wrinkled at the pungent reek of burning wool. There's not much I can do about it right now, but I'll do some our skin around the town and find out who's responsible. In the meantime, lock everything up and keep their livestock close to the farmhouse. Following his instruction, we spent the rest of the afternoon hurting the animals into the two paddocks

closest to the house and filling the barn with all the livestock it could fit. They'll be back. They can't leave well enough alone. On the neighboring farms, and in the distinct smudge of the town, more Salwin bonfires had been lit, just as they had been for the last thousand or so years. The smoke drifted and danced above the hills, hazing the sky and playing with the veil of mist that began to descend at dusk. The animals near the farmhouse bawled and snorted at their unusual confinement, while Dad cleaned and oiled his rifles methodically, even though his fingers trembled with fatigue.

I sat at the open window as the light began to die, breathing in smuts, straining my ears for the dim chime of iron between the screams of the beasts. Nightfall found me asleep in Dad's armchair, wrapped in a huge, crocheted blanket grandma had given me years ago. Kevin gently shook me awake, pushing a mug of coffee into my hands. We're going to need plenty of this tonight. Dad and Rory were already out.

Rifles slung across their backs as they threw out hay to the restless livestock. On Kevin's instruction, I rugged up for the weather and picked up the 22 rifle dad had designated for me. We'll be fine. Nobody messes with forearmed Americans. But just as those words left his lips, a splintering crash and the roaring of cattle beasts cut through the night, followed by the wildly swinging beams of flashlights and voices shouting. Dad and Rory. Hustling outside as fast as we could, jamming spare ammunition in our coat pockets.

We found that part of the fence had collapsed and animals were pouring through in a river of panic, with Rory desperately trying to head off the stampede. Kevin shook his head as we picked our way across the darkened field. Spoke too soon. It seemed like every gate on the farm had been thrown wide open. And in response, our livestock had run in every possible direction at once. Their mad, bawling rush leaving behind heavily hoof-rutted mud that threatened to trip us up with every step. Kevin, head up to the pond.

Close it off. Make sure none of these animals drown themselves before the night is out. No problem, Dad. Rory, I need you to check the North Gate. Make sure none of them get onto the road. Got it! I knew Dad would ask me to stay behind before he even said it. So when he pointed to the farmhouse,

I turned around and started walking before he could give the instruction. I was annoyed, but at least I'd be warm and dry while the boys stomped around in the thickening mist. Inside, I busied myself by making fresh coffee for when they inevitably returned and stoked up the fire, watching faintly greenish flame dancing on the resinous wood. For hours. Nothing stirred, and no one returned.

I'd expected Kevin back from his errand, but he must have met up with Dad and been assigned another task. The coffee cooled, and I laboriously made another pot on the stovetop, lamenting the automatic machine we'd left back in the States. Opening my phone, I sent out a text to each of the boys asking where they were. But when none of the messages showed as delivered, I cursed the poor reception on the farm and tried calling Dad. What was heavy mist and what was smoke, I couldn't tell.

But thick wraiths obscured the line of the hills. The frigid night air stank of wood smoke. And water beaded thickly on my jacket and in my hair. A cow lowed forlornly in the distance, answered by the shriek of a steer far to my left. And I shivered as I followed the fence line toward the pond. The gunshot that cracked through the night jerked me to an abrupt halt. But the report was preceded by a dirty orange flash of light ahead of me, an instinct took over. I vaulted the stone fence and ran towards it, my own weapon banging painfully on my hip and spine as I dashed headlong, heedless of the rolling, redded terrain.

I all but fell over Rory as he staggered across the field, drawn on by the mad bob of my flashlight. Rifle gone, he swayed, one hand pressed to his chest. I skyward like he was taking an oath. A bubbling syllable escaped him. Its sense lost in a slurry of red froth. With a cough of darker blood, he subsided into the mud at my feet, stained lips still trying to make the shape of a word while his own fluids swamped his lungs.

Kevin! But only the distant cries of distressed animals answered me. Nothing human. Fighting panicky tears. I covered Rory's hand with my own and pressed it as hard as I could against the bloody patch on the front of his jacket. But I already knew just how little good it would do. I wasn't sure he could hear me, but I was talking aloud as much for me as for him. I'm going to head for the hill by the pond.

There's decent reception up there, and I'll call an ambulance, okay? Rory's hand dutifully clutched at his chest. But his pale red head lulled back into the mud as I got my bearings. and ran for the hill. I don't know how I got lost. It was impossible, but it had happened. Perhaps it was the trauma of my brother's mortal injury, or maybe it was the feigness of the events surrounding us,

the night around me twisted by the thinning of the veil. But by the time I stumbled on the pond, finally oriented by the jagged loom of the old oak hung with iron charms, I knew Rory was dead. No ambulance could help him, even if I could have called one, but my phone still showed no signal at all. Scanning for the highest point,

I saw that in the pond ahead of me, an animal corpse floated, humped, and dark. Kevin hadn't managed to head off the livestock in time. As the creature floated closer, I realized that I wasn't seeing the wet nap of animal hide. What I saw was the soaked plaid of Kevin's jacket. and inside it the limp form of my eldest brother

drifted face down his outstretched hands slack and white as bone all thoughts fled I waded out and grabbed his collar even as the mud sucked at my boots attempting to mire me root strength prevailed

and I felt every bit my father's daughter as I hauled the cold corpse of my brother onto the bank of the pond his blue eyes were fogged with death and within their depths I saw only mist and smoke. I knew I should attempt CPR, that I should blow air into his lungs in a vain effort to resuscitate him. But I couldn't.

The idea of pressing my warm mouth to the frozen meat of his lips filled me with dizzy revulsion, and had gagged scrambling away from his body. This was no longer my brother. Dad, I need to find out. As though guided by unseen, unkind hands, I stumbled through the paddocks toward the fairy fort, the blue-white mask of Kevin's empty features haunting every heavy step. When Dad's bulky silhouette loomed through the mist, tears seared my eyes with relief.

But as he enfolded me in a desperate hug, I smelled sickly, burned flesh and scorched fabric and drew back. Flames had seared his right side, melting his jacket, and his right hand was blistered into an ugly mess, angry reds and raw pinks. Tried to burn me. But the rope burned through. Got away. Tried to burn you. He leaned on me for support.

They were right. right about the forest. I tried not to notice the skin that sloughed from his weeping hand and stuck to my jacket. Prescience fired in my synapses, and I turned us toward the nearest of the talisman trees. I'll get us home, Dad. Don't worry. As we dragged ourselves across the farm, I zigzagged between the iron festooned trees. My ears strained for the sound of the odd chime to guide me through the dark.

Their music dulled by the mist. and yet the mist was always thinner around each trunk, as though held at bay by ordinary old iron. How long it took us to reach the barn, I don't precisely know, but it was still well dark when we found the doors. Inside, the barn stank of animal, of sheep urine and cattle dung. But with the ancient metal talismans hung to roost like iron bats beneath the eaves of the thick stone walls, I intuitively divined. We were safe. The boys.

The words were hard one. The right side of his mouth puckered with burnwheels. I was unable to look at him when I spoke. Dead. Rory shot. Kevin drowned. Don't believe it. Don't believe any of it.

This is a drink. A horrible dream. I wish it was, Dad. Green light flashed at the door of the barn, and the iron chimes jangled in a frenzy, though no wind blew on the still farmland. The house cow, Essie, bawled mournfully, as though she knew this sight and sound,

and I put my arms around her warm neck. Sh, girl, sh, ch'nell. The emerald light strobed through the cobweb-choked windows of the barn, verdant shadows dancing across the steaming backs of the animals. I'm not sure what I was expecting in response. But it certainly wasn't the very human voice that answered me, familiar as my own, subdued and impossible in the middle of this madness. Maeve, I'm cold. Can you let us in?

Slumped against the post of a cow stall. Dad's drooping eyelids snapped open and he lurched to his feet like he'd grabbed an electric fence, shouting. Rory! Rory, my boy! Dad? It's us, Dad, let us in. Fear raked my belly, clawing at my sensibilities as the eyes of my brother fogged over inside my head. That horror was real.

This was not. I've never fought myself as hard as I did in that moment, wrestling with my urge to join my father and throw open the door. Dad, no. They're dead. They're both dead. I saw them. My father's ruined, half-fused fingers fumbled aside the barn door.

And I wailed along with Essie, my terror, bovine. Hands as white as bone. Slender, beautiful hands, pulled him out into the emerald radiance. And then he was gone too. Snuffed out along with that eerie light, extinguished as the door. crashed shut and left in the stinking darkness. My dead family called to me in trio for the rest of the night. I stuffed straw and dung into my ears to block them out, but they sang inside my skull too. When dawn broke, wan and white over the farm, I was hollow-eyed and half-mad,

filthy and splattered with blood and muck. The bodies of my father and brothers still haven't been found, nearly a year hence. None of my explanations made sense, but police here are locals too, and they seemed to know from the start that I wasn't to blame. I spent three months with my grandmother back in Kentucky, until it became obvious to everyone that there was no healing to be found.

And so, I came to. back to the farm, red-hide and raw as the day it had happened. After the things I saw that night, I no longer blamed the town's fault. They were trying to warn us to put right the desecration of the fairy fort, to protect a stupid, ignorant man and his stupid family from things they didn't understand. But I'm not ignorant anymore. I learned where dad couldn't. And that's why I came back. I haven't been idle these eight months. There was still just enough of dad's winnings left over for me to purchase every tinker's scrap of old iron in southern Ireland. There's no barley to blight this season. The crop is far tougher, for through Clement

weather and foul, I've spent every day since my return sewing every last furrow with cold iron. In every story I've read, placating the fairy folk with old rituals and needless sacrifices, seems to end badly for the humans. This human is going to fight. I am my father's only blame-haired heir. That means this farm is mine, and I intend to destroy them.

Sometimes you forage your own luck. I like the droll, mystical elements to this story. Even though it was quite macabre, the ending felt almost hopeful. Is that how you feel? No. Perhaps a little? All I feel is pissed at everything that was stolen from me. Time's up, Doc. I gotta take him now.

The city had to bring in crowd control. Let's just get this over with. One more minute, Peterson. I'll be right there. I just want to say goodbye to my patient. You don't have to stay. I won't stay, Alan. I have another patient here at Rikers. Okay.

Do you have someone waiting to pick you up? Yeah, my sister, if she can get around all the protesters. You know, you can call me any time, Alan. I know. It's going to be hard to adjust to the outside after 26 years in. I'll be okay. You haven't had a lot of time to prepare. since your release was granted only days ago.

Really, Doc. I'll be okay. Okay. I'm glad they finally pinned down the dirty cop, Alan. Me, too. You know, after all these years, never ever just came out and asked you, but with the evidence tampering,

your alibi, lack of identifiable motive... What is it, Doc? You didn't kill those six people. Right? I killed 13. The No Sleep Podcast presents the Halloween 2018 bonus episode. The stories were produced by Phil Mikulski and Jesse Cornett. Music by Brandon Boone.

The stories in order were Home, written by Keith McDuffie, and performed by Erica Sanderson, Addison Peacock, and Peter Lewis. The Graveyard Shift, written by Manon Lyset, and performed by Jeff Clement, Matthew Bradford, Andy Cresswell, Penny Scott Andrews, and Jessica McAvoy. The Spirit of Halloween, written by Rona Vassilar, and performed by Jessica McAvoy and Armand Taylor. Everyone's Invited, written by S.H. Cooper, and performed by Corinne Sanders, Nicole Good Night, Nicole Doolin, Alexis Bristow, and Kyle Akers. I Am Ghost, written by Gemma Amour, and performed by David Alt, Erica Sanderson, and Aaron Lillis.

Hallowed Ground, written by C.M. Scandrith, and performed by Addison Peacock, Graham Rowett, Dan Zapula, Andy Cresswell, and Erica Sanderson. The Death Row Prison Story was written by C.K. Walker and performed by Mike Delgado and Peter Lewis. I'm your host, David Cummings. Thank you for letting us be a part of your Halloween nightmares. Visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn more about our show. This audio production is copyright 2018 by Creative Reason Media, Inc., all rights reserved. Copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.

We have it. Our terrifying, sleepless Halloween special is at a close. So it's time for you to close the curtains, shut off the lights, and drift into the dreamlands, where the great dreamer lies. waiting. Sometimes you have to sleep. And when you do, it brings us great pleasure to give you nightmares. That's why we've teamed up with publisher Focus Home Interactive and a developer Cyanide Studio to bring you the chance to win one of five copies of their upcoming horror video game.

Call of Cthulhu. Now, to take part in this first. fantastic giveaway, head on over to the no sleeppodcast.com slash Cthuloo. That's C-T-H-U for the uninitiated. And there follow the instructions for your chance to win. Answer the call, enter madness, and brace yourself for the call of Cthulhu and the No Sleep podcast.