The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S15E10 Halloween 2020

Episode Date: October 31, 2020

It’s Episode 10 of Season 15. Our lost highway journey drives deep into Halloween. “The Porch Scarecrow” written by Anders Rhys (Story starts around 00:11:25) Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Narrator – Peter Lewis, Johnathon – Elie Hirschman, Kathryn – Erin Lillis, Teenage Boy – Matthew Bradford, Beth – Sarah Ruth Thomas “Don’t Ask” written by Olivia White (Story starts around 00:31:30) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Laird – Jeff Clement, Holly – Jessica McEvoy, Trent Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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Before our lost highway drives us deep into the No Sleep Halloween 2020 episode, We want to share a short trailer for a new podcast we're sure you're going to love. From the creators of Darkest Night and Deadly Manners come... My fellow Americans, it is with deep sorrow. I must inform you that today's report is indeed true. In several months' time, the world as we know it will no longer exist. And the surface of planet Earth will be uninhabitable. Every experience.

Every memory, every feeling you've ever had is just an electron stored in your brain. There was a time when these things your feeling could have been real. Would have been real. But underground, that possibility is gone. I don't know when you're listening, where you're listening, or how you're listening. What I do know is, if you've gotten this far, you're seeking answers. Answers to why the world is the way it is. I don't know everything, but this is my story, at least.

My story. The Oyster will be available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, and all podcast platforms this November. Tales of Horror. for the no sleep podcast. No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Happy, happy Halloween, Halloween, Halloween, Happy, Happy Halloween, Happy Halloween. Happy, Halloween, and no sleep podcast.

Hello, hello, and welcome to the No Sleep Podcasts. 2020 Halloween special. I'll begin with an important PSA. I think we all know that 2020 has been a little bit rubbish. I shan't go over all the reasons. I imagine you're pretty sick of hearing about them by now. But let's just say this hasn't been one of the better years in humankind's history. One could almost say that we're living in a very real horror story. And that's why, for our 2020 Halloween special, we've decided to take a bold new direction. Instead of providing you with six horrifying, skin-crawling, insomnia-inducing tales of terror, tonight we're proud to present a two-hour romantic comedy audio drama entitled A Smooch in the Dark, The Pumpkins Kiss. Shared with us by author

Holly Dionis, this light-hearted Halloween love romp will raise your spirits, lift your mood, and incite absolutely no sense of terror, drama, or fear. As further detachment from horror, I'm proud to announce in advance that the story has a happy ending. Everyone lives happily ever after. Our two main characters get hitched, and absolutely nobody dies tragically after being possessed by seven demons with agendas. Nothing bad happens at all. In fact, the couple in this tale don't even argue once, because who needs drama and mystery when real life is filled with strife. So now, without further ado,

allow me to... Allow me to... Hello, Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. David Cummings speaking. How may I help you? Uh-huh. I see.

Right. I understand. Okay, well, thank you for letting me know. Goodbye. I'm so sorry, but it's my duty to inform you that there will be no romantic comedy Halloween love romp. The author was trapped in a subterranean cave filled with unspeakable monstrosities and couldn't finish the script. The two lead actors became obsessed with a cursed puzzle box and ended up sacrificing each other in the name of Leviathan. And the composer, well, the less said about him, the better.

The point is, the production never happened. There will be no cheery distractions for us this October 31st. No happiness, no kissing, no Peter Gabriel, end credits sequence. So this leaves us with two choices. One, we could spend the next two hours with me singing you nursery rhymes, I do mean the ant and the grasshopper, or we could do the unthinkable, the horrifying, the soul devoid. and we could listen to some horror stories.

Okay, but in all seriousness, 2020 has been awful, and there are some who may very well have had their fill of horror, thanks to this year, and that's okay. But the horror genre has something to offer during periods of strife. It's catharsis, it's a safe place to explore fear and terror outside of the very real impact of reality. It can guide many, many of us through difficult times and give us the tools to cope with the real-world horrors we might face in our daily lives. And that's why for Halloween 2020, we at the No Sleep podcast have

collected six tales of terror and torment, of tricks and treats, of costumes and chaos. Because no matter the horrors going on outside the window, which has a face in it, of course, there's always room for horrors in here with us that entertain and alarm. Tales for the dark hours when you dare not close your eyes. Tales to frighten and disturb. So join us as the sleepless hours tick past. And brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast, Halloween Special 2020. In our first tale, we prepare to have a happy Halloween.

Kids are trick-or-treating, neighbors are partying, and the mood is high. Excited screams drift from the nearby woods as the leaves brown and fall from the branches. Shared with us by author Anders Rees, we get to walk hand in hand with a certain costumed man as he makes his way through the evening. Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Ellie Hirschman, Aaron Lillis, Matthew Bradford, and Sarah Thomas. So grab your candy bags, pull on your masks, and let's kick off the trick-or-treating with our guide, the porch scarecrow. Those of dusk were fading from the sky. The street was filled with tiny witches and vampires and batmans rushing gleefully from house to house while anxious parents followed. Raucous laughter and screams of excitement echoed through the crisp, autumnal air.

String lights and jack-o-lanterns lit the night, transforming the suburban street into a glowing underworld of orange and purple and green. I watched the revelry from my porch and waited, motionless, in the dim orange glow of the pumpkin lights. I am nothing, if not, patient. The first brave souls ventured up my front walk a little after sundown, a small. boy dressed as some sort of ninja turtle ran up the path, his sneakers flashing with each step along the trail of pumpkin lights. He climbed the steps to my porch. The jackalentered mask on my face greeted him with its jagged grin. I sat slouched against the wooden bench, arms hanging limp and head lolling spinelessly. Straw burst from the holes in my jacket and spilled from underneath

my hat. In the eerie half-light, I hardly looked human. This young knafe clearly took me for a simple decoration. He gave me no more than a glance before going to the front door and ringing the bell. He waited, but no answer came. The house was dark and empty. Looking around, he spotted the bowl of candy sitting beside me and proceeded to help himself. A shiver of anticipation ran through me, building with each resument plop of candy into his plastic bucket. Oh, so slowly I turned my head in his direction. The empty, dark eyes of my mask fixed their gaze upon his small form. He did not notice.

I lifted my arms, worn leather gloves outstretched. to grasp at flesh, my straw crackled as I reached towards him. His eyes shot up and locked with mine. He stared. A low whine of distress escaped from his mouth as he stumbled backwards and rushed down the porch steps. He searched desperately for the guardian he had abandoned in his haste. A tall woman wearing a pointed witch's hat and elaborate cobweb eyeliner was striding up. the walk. She led a small girl in a princess dress by the hand. It's just Mr. Bennett in his costume. Remember last year? She waved at me. Happy Halloween, Charlie. The boy turned back to look at me, mouth agape. I waved. Happy Halloween, Catherine. My voice was dry as straw.

Catherine tried to lead the girl up the porch steps, but she did not seem inclined to get closer. I held the candy bowl down where she could reach. Princesses get free candy. Staring hard at my mask, she selected a single piece before running to hide behind her mom's skirt. Catherine gave me an appreciative smile. Everybody say thank you to Mr. Bennett. Not, Mr. Bennett. Oh, that's right. How silly of me!

She gave me an exaggerated wink. Everybody say thank you to Mr. Scarecrow. Thank you, Mr. Scarecrow. The kids were already running towards the next house. Catherine paused a moment. Hey, Charlie, Beth and I are having some folks over for a post-trick-or-treating party. You're coming, right? I left you a message, but you never called back.

Oh, sorry about that. Do you want me there? Of course. It wouldn't be Halloween without you. A bunch of folks in the neighborhood are coming. It's mostly kids and parents, but there will be treats and spooky cocktails for the adults. Parents. She heard of the reluctance in my voice. Come on, we're right across the street. You have no excuse not to come. Well, if you insist, they were such a nice family. The night grew darker, the moon rose, orange and voluminous to hang above the trees and peaked roofs.

Teenagers and mischief makers ventured out to foment chaos, running wild from yard to yard and shrieking in the dark. A gang of unruly youths crashed through the rhododendrons ignoring the path and trampling my pumpkin lights. They paused at the porch steps and eyed me with suspicion. Clearly they had played this game before. A boy in a grim reaper hood was the first to try his luck. He watched me intently as he reached one skeleton glove into the candy bowl. nerves steeled for the impending jump scare. I did not stir. He grabbed an entire handful of candy and raced back down the steps laughing victoriously. Emboldened, the others followed his example.

The last boy came right up to my face and peered into the aisles of my mask. I don't think there's even a guy in here. You guys, it's just a scarecrow. He prodded my shoulder, feeling the crackle of straw under my shirt. Dude, it totally tricked me. He shoved his hand into the candy bowl. My arm shot forward, and my glove closed on his wrist. He yelled in shock and tried to yank it back, but I kept my grip tight. I pulled him in closer.

Happy Halloween. chuckling to myself as he and his friends ran away into the night. As trick-or-treating wound down, party-goers gathered across the street. Children chased each other across Beth and Catherine's lawn while parents chatted at the door. Catherine spotted me still at my post. She called across the street and made exaggerated beckoning motions. I experienced some, uh, trepidating. in social environments, but it didn't seem that I would have much choice.

I left my porch and shuffled across the street. The children stopped playing and stared as I came up the driveway. Catherine waited at the door and ushered me inside with a smile. The foyer was strewn with a thick layer of fake cobwebs. Black candelabras flickered from a pair of end tables and a black light overhead cast the scene in an eerie glow. It was delightfully atmospheric. The house is lovely.

Thank you. We go all out for Halloween here. I followed Catherine down a hallway, hung with purple string lights and paper bats. She led me to the kitchen. A group of adults were standing around the counter, uh, socializing. Catherine sidled up next within woman wearing cat ears and painted whiskers.

Her wife, Beth, she waved me closer. This is Charlie Bennett. He lives in the house across the street. I am not Charlie Bennett. That's right. And tonight, I am not the mere mortal Catherine Spencer. I am Eccatarina, evil enchantress, bewitcher of soul. She threw back her head and cackled wildly.

Beth rolled her eyes. Charlie does this scarecrow character every year to scare the kids. I can't tell if they love it or hate it. But Catherine thinks it's great. They should get a little scared on Halloween. That's what makes it fun. Didn't you ever have that one house you were scared to trick-or-treat at? It's like a rite of passage.

Beth patted her arm placatingly. Okay, babe. If Willow has nightmares this year, you can get up at 2 a.m. and explain that to her, okay? She grabbed a tray of cookies shaped like spiders and popped one in her mouth. Want a cookie? We also have slime cake, popcorn, caramel apples, and there's punch on the table. She gestured at a large crystal bowl containing an opaque. black liquid and an assortment of floating eyeballs.

Careful though, it's pretty strong. I'm afraid I won't be able to partake. I raised a glove to my mask. Beth gave me a strange look. Are you gonna keep that mask on all night? You're really dedicated to staying in character, huh? I excused myself before a they could force me to perform a small talk and I found a seat in the corner.

The children peered at me curiously from around corners and behind sofas, giggling and ducking away when my gaze turned in their direction. I humored them, raising my hands and growling whenever I caught them looking my way. Soon they had invented a game, running up and poking my knee while I put. pretended not to see them and running away shrieking when I turned and growled. Jonathan, the small boy in the turtle costume, approached me nervously. Really a scarecrow? He took a moment to consider this information.

Do you live in a field and scare crows away? Oh no, I only scare children. He frowned. Mom says you're scared. but it's just a game. And really, you're a nice scarecrow. A strange sensation twinged somewhere in my chest cavity. Thank you.

I try my best. I stayed for some time watching them play party games and devour candy. But the night began to wear thin. As I grew tired, I could feel my cohesion. flipping. Excuse me, Catherine. I caught her refilling her glass at the punch bowl. I think I'd best be going.

Thank you for your hospitality. Oh, of course. Thank you so much for coming. You're really making Halloween special for our kids. Before I could protest, she gathered me into a hug. She smelled of lavender and alcohol When she released me There was straw in her hair

And a large black beetle Clinging to her dress I carefully plucked it off I bid her good night And made my escape Outside the street was empty The late night quiet It set in

I lingered amidst the lights savoring the last few moments Halloween The scene was ending, and my time was coming to a close. I crossed the street and shuffled around to the backyard, down the lawn, and into the woods behind Mr. Bennett's house. The forest was so peaceful. The soft carpet of decaying leaves, so inviting, their sweet, earthy musk filled my senses and bade me sink into their embrace. I stood in the darkness between the trees. and lifted the rubber mask from my face.

The burlap hood underneath was pulled, closed, and gathered into a lumpy knot, sealing off the features beneath. I fumbled at the knot with my gloves. As it came loose, I bent forward, and my hood swung open. Glistening stream of black beetles poured from the dark space inside, tumbling onto the leaves below.

My body jerked and spasmed, expelling more and more beetles into a writhing pile that gathered around my feet. My shape crumpled inward as I emptied myself, a collapsing into nothing but old clothes and straw. The beetles burrowed into the loamy soil, carrying the last traces of my existence with them as they sank into the earth. In a moment nothing was left but a mound of leaves. It'll be a few more years, I think, until I need to feed. I'll have to move on after that. Only a few more Halloween's left with my new friends. The night always passes too quickly, and the weight in between is so very long.

But that's all right. be back next year. And now, a momentary break from our Halloween festivities. Hello. Voice actor and recently canonized St. Atticus Jackson here, bringing you news of a brand new product from an old friend of the show. That's right. Quip are back, and I'm just brushing up my ability to tell you what they've been working

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To maintain social distancing, they stood at the gate while I catapulted candy to them with my brand new trebushet that I bought from Walmarts, with two L's. I may not have calculated the tension exactly right, though. They're still searching for those Hershey bars in the woods across the street. Let's hope they find the candy before something finds them. No, no, I'm sure they're safe. There hasn't been a lichenthrope sighting in Canada in at least 29 days.

Ah, and speaking of violent dismemberment, let's see what our next treat for you wretched listeners is. Ah, yes, here we go. In our next tale, we join a group of friends in an attic for some post-party horseplay. And what better way to celebrate the clock striking 12 on Halloween night than by meddling with forces beyond our comprehension? And in this tale, shared with us by author Olivia White, we discover what happens when forces beyond our comprehension metal back. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Jessica McAvoy, Atticus Jackson, Dan Zapula, and Nicole Goodnight.

So gather around the table, place your fingers on the glass. Be prepared to share an opinion, espouse a fact, or make a statement. But if you have questions, whatever you do, don't ask. I'm more here for this. It's just a fun party, you know. Last Halloween party before the real fear begins. Adult life. But hey, not the last party of our college careers just yet. Next semester's going to be so much fun. Hey, don't remind me about next semester. I need to get through this one first. Yeah. Mm. Live in the moment. That's what I say. He can't behave.

You don't want to get the spirits turned on. Yes. Yes, it is hard watching the girl of my dreams get drooled on by Trent, a sex-crazed jock who's just using her for her body. Unfortunately, that sex-crazed jock is also my best friend, who has no idea how I feel about Holly. And knowing Trent, he'll get bored of Holly, like he gets bored of all his other flash-in-the-pan fads.

Holly always used to joke with me about Trent's attention span. Kind of floored she eventually hooked up with him. Not like she doesn't know what the guy's all about. We've been friends since middle school. Hey, the spirits have better things to worry about than a nip slip or two. Wait, I didn't. Although if Trent doesn't blueball himself, you might pop out. Damn, that's one revealing costume, babe.

So you've said 16 times this evening After being the one to choose it for me And force me to wear it Hey, I ain't arguing Anna Marie has good taste Slutty leather face Genius Hey, I prefer sexually provocative

leather face And I think we've all got to agree that Laird takes best costume tonight For his dashing Jack the Pumpkin King. I flush my cheeks turning that familiar holly compliment crimson. I'm powerless to resist even the table scraps of her attention.

Christ, I love this girl. Christ, I am such a pussy. Yeah, dude, right on. This is Halloween. Did you ever see those two Kappa Delta Phi checks? It was kind of hard to miss them. Hey, you shouldn't have been left. You just asked if I saw. And I mean, they were naked. Just flat out naked. Nudity as a Halloween costume. Genius.

Take some balls, man. Or, you know, not. Clearly not. Hey, else, we should go as nudist next year. Or now. Enough, Trent. Down, boy. I try to avert my gaze as Trent's hands travel over Holly, revealing even more of her perfect cleavage. I can't be seen staring. So, uh, Nathaniel, you got the stuff? Oh, yeah, man.

Pure Bubba Cush. Fresh from Jay's greenhouse this morning. Endicca, baby! Yeah, no, I mean the other stuff. I got it. Great, good, awesome. Okay, well, let's get set up. Man, I've never seen a Ouija thingy in real life before.

Now, guys, some rules, okay? Once we start, it's important nobody leaves the board. And once we're done, we have to bid the spirits goodbye. Otherwise, we're essentially giving them an invite to stay with us. Forever. My heart swells as she finishes my thought. Holly, Trent, Anna Marie, and I all went to middle and high school together. I was the one who taught Holly All Things Horror.

Her enthusiasm for, and interest in the subject matter, has always flattered me way more than it probably should. In a way, she's always said as brotherly. In a way, I've always thought, is, Let me make sweet love to you as we watch the entire Hellraiser series, even the one set in an MM-O-R-P-G. Yeah, that's right. I had a friend who didn't say goodbye on the board, and, well, I have one less friend now.

Psh, as if you have friends. Die, bitch. I shall defend your honor, my dear. And Holly will defend mine. I'm beginning to grow frustrated with these PDAs, not least because they make me feel like a sexless, in-cell virgin. Which I'm not, but also because I'm keen to get on with the seance. So anyway, in theory, tonight we should have an easier time conjuring the spirits because it's Halloween. So the veil between life and death is at its thinnest.

Do you think it matters that I lost the original planchette for the board? This glass tumbler will be fine, right? Yeah, it'll be all good. So everyone put one finger on the glass. And for real guys, please take this seriously. I am not getting cursed because you want to fuck around, Trent. I wince at the dead-ass solemnity in my voice. I know Holly doesn't like guys who take things too seriously.

That's why she's boning Trent and not me. Maybe it would be easier if I could be mad at the guy, but I love him like a brother. Sure, he may not treat Holly as well as I'd like. He's all over her all the time, constantly touching her, and... Hey, why me? Well, I think you know why, Trentington.

Because you're a dick. Yeah, there. Now I seem a little more laid back. Laid back, Laird. Man, and I'm not even drunk or high. Holly's sharing the joint. She never used to smoke weed before she and Trent hooked up in college. She was always sober in high school, like me.

Sober Club, she called it. Yet another thing I've lost with her. Anyway, fingers on the planchette are... Glass, yeah, let's do this. Laird, shall we let our guest have the honor of the first question? My guest, she means Nathaniel, her new boyfriend. We've been acquaintances with him for a while, but he never really ran in our circles. Seems like a nice guy, though. Treats Anna Marie well.

Isn't all over her like Trent is with Holly. Doesn't constantly try undressing her in public. More of a gentleman. Oh, boy. So, uh, just the basics to start, yeah? Yeah. Ask if anyone's around. Oh, hear me, spirits. Should whoever from beyond the realm of life, he who lingers in death, wish to speak with us, then make yourself known henceforth. Cringy, maybe, but it'll do. As...

I have a... What? A. Great. Awful. Well, it's true. You do have a great ass. Can't keep my hands off of it. Jesus, Trent, can't you leave her body alone for five minutes?

I seriously doubt she wants to keep getting groped like that. Uh, she has a name, you know. From her expression and tone, I can tell I've been. misjudged Holly's feelings on having Trent's pause all over her. She used to agree with me that this stuff was demeaning, though. Increasingly, I feel like I barely know her these days. And that makes me so, so sad. Oh, bro, sorry.

I'm just being an asshole. I'll take it seriously. I promise. Hey, it's not good. This is just a bit of fun. Nobody expects to actually... Trent? Whoa.

Wasn't me, man. From the looks on their faces, I don't think it was any of them. So, wait, did anyone catch what it said? My. My wife? Huh? Great. Our spirits a Trent-esque meathead.

Where did they bury my wife? Where did they bury my wife? They bury my wife? Bury my wife! Holly doesn't look right. Her eyes are rolled back in her skull. She's pale in the candlelight of the attic. Sweating.

Holly, are you okay? Where did they bury my wife? Oh, my dude? Where did they bury my wife? All the while, the glass scrapes, spelling out the words, Holly in tones. And... Oh, my God, nobody's touching the board.

Nobody's touching the fucking board! Don't leave the circle, Anna Marie. You can't break the circle. But dude, Holly, she's... If we break the circle improperly, it could kill her. Kill her? Jesus, I didn't. Where did they bury my wife?

Where did they bury my wife? Where did they bury my wife? They buried me down among the roots in the pumpkin patch. Trent's fucked up, too. White eyes. Pale. and their voices. Where did they bury my tongue?

Where did they bury my tongue? Where did they bury my tongue? They buried your tongue beside me in the pumpkin patch. Guys, come on. This isn't funny now. It isn't. They have to be pranking me. They have to be.

Where did they bury my hands? Where did they bury his hands? Where did they bury his hands? They buried your hands beside me, beside your tongue, in the pumpkin patch. All of them. It's all of them now. Stop! Where did they bury my legs?

Where did they bury his legs? Where did they bury his legs? They buried his legs. your legs beside me, beside your tongue, beside your hands, in the pumpkin patch. I have to do something. I have to stop this. I can save everyone. Save her. The girl of my dreams. Where did they bury my head? Where did they bury his head? Where did they bury his head? They buried your head beside me, beside your tongue, beside your hands, beside your legs, in the pumpkin patch. And where did they bury my heart?

Where did they bury his heart? Where did they bury his heart? They buried your heart beside me, beside your tongue, beside your hands, beside your legs, beside your head. in the pumpkin patch. I don't want to hear this. I don't want to hear this. I just want Holly back. I can't do this alone.

And where did I bury the knife, dear? Where did he bury the knife, dear? Where did they bury the knife, dear? You buried the knife inside me, in the back. Beside your tongue. Beside your hands. Beside your legs, beside your head, beside your heart, in the pumpkin patch. No, no, stop.

Don't. Stop! Our head, I can't move. Breathe. I can't breathe. Oh my God, I can't open my mouth. I can't open my eyes. Now we're all here together, dear.

Now we're all here together, dear. The pumpkin! Just got done carving some gourds. Glorious. Look at all those staring, screaming faces. Oh, and the pumpkins look great, too. Ah, you gotta love a lineup of severed heads on Halloween. It really adds to the festive atmosphere,

especially when we're all social distancing and can't have any wild Halloween parties. But speaking of parties, what thrills have we got coming up? Ah, how about this? A Halloween jaunt through a train yard. What could go wrong there? There's nothing creepy about trains who's ever heard about horror happening on the rails. But in this tale, shared with us by author S.H. Cooper, when two young women find themselves lost in a railway yard, they discover that they're not the only ones on the wrong side of the tracks. Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Nicole Goodnight, Jesse Cornette, Kristen DiMecurio, Mary Murphy, Jessica McAvoy, and Danielle McCrae.

So get your tickets punched, but maybe we're not going on a journey. Maybe we're going to the ball. At least that's where you might find the Gandy dancer. Fiona fucked up. The party was only supposed to be a small one. A get-together between us and just a handful of people while I had the house to myself for a couple of days. The problem with handfuls, however, is that their size varies based on the person. To me, it was half a dozen good friends, a few 12-packs, and the crappy horror movies that

every channel plays ad nauseum the minute September hits. To Fiona, it meant inviting most of our grade, including the guys who insist they're a real band because they can play real loud. It only lasted for about two hours before there were cop cars parked outside, and my parents were being called home early from their weekend getaway to the Poconos. Fiona blamed it all on a simple miscommunication. I blamed it all on Fiona. She'd make it up to me, she said, however I wanted.

She used that pleading voice with the implied puppy dog eyes, the one she relied on when she knew she was in deep shit. I told her I'd think about it. As it turned out, I didn't have to think long. But it's Halloween! I have plans! It was a poor argument. But all I had when facing down the two-headed hydra

that was my parents' continued wrap. Well, now you have new plans. It's your own fault. You've made it clear you can't be trusted on your own. Everything I'd written into my schedule for October 31st was crossed out in thick red lines and overwritten with haunted train ride. The only solace I had was knowing I would have company. Fiona had the nerve to sound shocked when I called her and told her about our new Halloween plans.

But that's for kids. Your parents do know we're 16, right? Yep. But after that crap you pulled, I might as well be wearing one of those harnesses with a leash on it. Dad's work is hosting a party at the old station, and they've got this haunted house thing in the train yard to keep the kids busy. If I have to be there, so do you. There was a long pause, so I added, you can't leave me alone. Come on, Cindy. Didn't you say you'd do whatever I wanted to make things up to me? That doesn't sound like me.

You want me to forgive you? You're going to suck it up and come with me. You know that? Ditto. We didn't bother dressing up, despite my parents encouraging us to just have fun with it. Neither of us saw the fun of being shuffled through a string of stationary old train cars, decorated with plastic skeletons and cotton spider webs. Fiona and I made one last plea for freedom, even if it meant just the two of us spending the evening at home handing out candy to trick-or-treaters.

But it fell on deaf ears, and we were pushed, still protesting, into the car. To help get us in the holiday spirit, Dad played a CD of Halloween sounds the entire 20-minute ride to the old station. It just made us mind shooting ourselves in the head in the back seat. I wasn't sure what was worse once we arrived at the venue, an old train station that had been converted into an event center, that we were made to join the line of small, costume children waiting to check in,

or that my parents stayed with us until we'd reached the entrance to the caboose that marked the start of the haunted house. The attendant gave us a politely bemused smile as she stamped the back of our hands. You girls have a good time. Mom kissed us noisely on our foreheads before she and dad started away.

We'll pick you up at nine. Before Fiona and I could contemplate our escape, we were gathered up with the latest group of ten or so arrivals, all of whom barely came up over our waist, and guided into the train car. Wolves howled from tiny speakers, fog billowed from a poorly concealed machine, and a cauldron being stirred by a woman

with a poorly applied large nose bubbled in one corner. The kids huddled together, eyes wide, while we scoffed and fell to the back of the pack. Our guide, a young woman in a jester's outfit, complete with tinkling bells on her cap, waved us forward. Come. Come, we have to stick together if we want to make it through the haunted train to the party and the dining car.

Before we begin our journey, there are just a few rules we have to go over. She started to recite a list in her over-the-top spooky voice. The usual stuff about keeping our hands to ourselves and letting either herself or the friendly cowboy at the back know a we needed something. But most importantly, don't exit the train. Fiona exhaled sharply through her nose and folded her arms across her chest,

already bored and feeling snarky over her lost evening. Yeah? Why not? The jester guide smiled in what I'm sure she thought was a creepy way. Because trains are meant to take you places, and you don't always. know where you'll end up, especially on Halloween. Maybe that would mean something if we were actually moving.

With a clap of her hands, the tour officially began, and we were ushered forward into the next car. The kids jumped and shrieked at every little thing. The wolfman that leapt out from a cupboard, the fuzzy spider that dropped from the ceiling, one of the children sneezing unexpectedly. It was noisy and annoying. And every time I looked at Fiona, my scowl deepened. If it weren't for her, we wouldn't have been there at all. She must have sensed my growing unhappiness aimed in her direction

because she kept motioning for me to keep my cool. Relax, she mouthed. Wait! The opening Fiona told me to wait for came when a little boy in a dinosaur costume started to ball after a zombie lurched toward him from behind a cardboard headstone. No amount of zombie jester cowboy trio attempting to convince him it was all make-believe could stop his high-pitched wailing.

It started to affect the others, and the car slowly filled with the murmurs and whines of increasingly nervous children. Our guides knelt among the group. All strained smiles and forced positivity while they tried to diffuse the emotional time bomb. Fiona nudged me and tilted her head toward the door leading back to the previous train car behind us. As subtly as we could, we eased our way backwards, away from the anxious mass, and slipped through the open door. Another group was already in the car, distracting the actor's position there, and we were able to sneak undetected behind a set piece, where an outer door had been left propped open.

We exchanged a triumphant grin and exited the train. I saw it when we were going through. Don't act like you deserve a thanks. She pulled her expression into an exaggerated pout and grabbed my wrist. Oh, come on, Cindy. At least now we don't have to spend the night dancing to Kid Bob's Halloween edition. I couldn't help but giggle at this stupid look on her face and linked my arm with hers. We broke into a jog, eager to put the shit show of a haunted house behind us.

The train yard was quieter than I expected, and darker. Every few yards there was a lamp on a post, but they only cast a weak glow that barely reached the ground. Rows of run-down cars bordered either side of the dirt path. Their paint flecked away to reveal the rust and age beneath. Each gust of chilly autumn winds set off a new round of metallic creeks. We reached an intersection. Left the right. I don't know.

I glanced back toward the haunted train ride. Distance had shrunk it down and dulled its lights. I could still hear the faint mood music drifting from inside. We probably shouldn't go too far. We won't, I promise, but we have almost two hours to kill. Plenty of time to explore a little, don't you think? I guess. So pick, left or right?

Uh, left? She laughed and tugged my arm. Relax, would you? The yard isn't even that big. We used to come down here for field, in elementary school, it takes like half an hour to walk around the whole place. I let her lead me along with an exasperated sigh. We bemoaned all the real parties we were missing,

especially the one at Haley Britter's Mansion. They went all out every year, hiring caterers, special effects artists to put makeup on guests, and professional performers that were actually capable of scaring us. We hardly paid attention to where we were going and simply followed the path as it wound through the graveyard of trains. I kept expecting the darkness to be broken up by the lights from the station, where my parents were no doubt having a grand time,

or at least run back into the kids' party again. But the wall of train cars stretched on and on, down each straightaway, around every turn. While Fiona continued to bitch, I started to notice that the more modern steel cars had become fewer, replaced by even older ones made from wood. Rot had eaten away at their siding, leaving them pockmarked and sagging,

and many of the roofs had caved in altogether. Most of their sliding doors had been left open, but their interiors were shrouded in inky black. The spacing between lamps had grown. Instead of being only a car-length apart, they were now scattered every four or five cars, with large swaths of shadow between them. The silence that had settled over the yard was heavy,

interrupted only by the occasional whistle of wind, far colder than it had been when we left the haunted house, and groan of ancient wood. Goose bumps rose along the back of my neck, and my fingers curled more tightly around Fiona's arm. She must have felt something was off as well, because her complaining was tumbling in a rapid ramble from her mouth, punctuated by shrill laughter.

We should go back. I didn't know why I was whispering. Yeah. We spun around and retraced our steps, first at a brisk walk, and then running between the lines of dilapidated train cars. Every time we rounded a corner, it was just to find another blockade of wood and metal.

Turns I didn't remember taking were now the only available option. Lamps, that had been lit moments before, now hung dark from their hooks. Our ragged breathing cut noisily through the night. No matter which way we ran, it didn't seem to be bringing us any closer to the haunted house. Just more train cars left to decay. I finally jerked to a stop,

doubled over with my hands on my knees, forcing Fiona to come to a halt as well. What the hell? I thought you said this yard wasn't that big. I'm not. Hey, hey! Hey, is anyone there? Help us? We're lost. We cupped our hands around our mouths and shouted into the sky, begging someone to come find us and lead us out of this maze. We didn't care how embarrassing it might be, or how much my parents might tease and scold us in equal measure. We just wanted to get out. Our voices faded into tense silence, and we stood on our tiptoes, peering around, as if that might make us hear a response better. None came.

Fiona clutched the back of my shirt and her fists. What do we do? We both froze. Never before had such a tiny voice, so youthful and delicate, made my skin prickle so sharply. Fiona whimpered again against my shoulder. Wrang. Trembling, I turned toward the boxcar behind us.

The sliding door was open, a gaping mouth and a splier. entered face, but it was too dark to see inside. Run! It sounded like a little girl. Maybe another escapee from the haunted train ride. Coming. Look with us. Fiona's fear gave way to a flash of anger,

and she tore herself away from me to grab a nearby lamp that was struggling to stay lit. She raised its flickering light toward the box car. Who are you? Come out here, you little shit. Fiona stepped toward the door. I stayed close behind her. Who's coming? The Gandy Dancer. Just as we got close enough to cast the light into the box car,

a chorus of children's voices suddenly rose from within an uneven, whispered whirlwind. It's coming, the Gandy Dancer. They were hanging from the ceiling by their hair. At least a dozen heads, all young girls. Their bloodless faces contorted and fear. and anguish. Where their eyes should have been were jagged black holes.

We fell back, and the lamp smashed against the ground. The girl's voices continued to call from the box car, warning us that the Gandhi dancer was coming. I grabbed Fiona's hand and pulled her after me.

We fled, screaming, picking directions at random, letting our fright drive us. More cars and more cars, no sign of escape. And then, from behind us, we heard a burbling hiss, followed by a long, dragging sound through the dirt.

Fiona sprang ahead, suddenly re-energized, and tugged me wildly along. The dragon continued, became faster. But what was worse was the breathing, wet, thick, bubbling with each inhale. I looked back as we passed by a lamp. The Gandhi dancer entered the pool of light only seconds after we'd left it. First, his head, a pulpy, featureless mess, driven through by rusted railroad spikes.

And then he wrenched himself forward with thick, muscled arms, fingers raking into the ground. His legs dragged behind, ending at the knee in red, raw stumps of shredded flesh. Go, go! She was beginning to slow. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she gulped for air. I glanced back again. The Gandy dancer was gaining on us, his hands digging up clumps of earth

and his eagerness as he hauled himself along. His gurgling breath had become sharp and fast. The smell of iron and rot surrounded us. She shouldn't be the one crying. She's the one who made us come out here. She's the reason we're here at all! I couldn't really. bring myself to look toward the Gandy dancer again. He sounded so close, just a hair's breath away.

I was sure I'd feel his fingers catching my clothing at any moment. My heart lodged itself in my throat. I could barely breathe around it. Fiona was beside me, starting to lag just a bit behind. Our eyes met. This is all her fault. My legs swung out of its own accord. I was surprised. I was surprised. when it connected soundly with Fiona's ankle. We both stumbled. My arms pinwheeled as I pitched forward, but I managed to stay on my feet. Fiona dropped heavily to the ground.

I stopped and spun, immediately regretting what I had done. I hadn't meant it. I wasn't thinking clearly. She was within arms link. I could just stick out my hand and pull her upright. But then I lifted my gaze, and I saw the gandie dancer bearing down on us.

Already reaching, already grasping. I couldn't even bring myself to scream. Fiona did enough for both of us. The Gandhi dancer took hold of her ankle and yanked her sharply toward him. I just stood there. My limbs jello and lead all at once while he crawled atop her. She pounded her fists against his chest, screeching for me to help over his watery breathing.

He didn't even react to her blows. His hands closed around her head, muffling her cries. He twisted slowly. Fiona held. And then, with a crack, she stopped. More cracking, breaking, a horrible pop of sinew and skin. And the gandy dancer held up Fiona's head by her hair. He drove his finger into one eye socket,

and she wept, Ikor, down her pale chest. cheeks as he pulled the eyeball out. I found my legs again and ran before he could do the same to the other eye. Up one row of old train cars, down another, weeping, wailing, begging for someone to save. I knew if I stopped, the gandie dancer would do to me what he'd done to Fiona. Just the thought of her name sent shards of guilt cutting through my chest, but I couldn't stop. I couldn't help her. I grabbed hold of a guardrail on a nearby car to steady my and swung around a corner. A head, a wolf howled through tinny speakers.

I staggered forward on legs that were fast becoming uncooperative. My eyes locked on the welcome glow of the train hosting the kids' Halloween party, and my arms outstretched for the still-open door that seemed so impossibly far away. When I finally reached it, shaking and barely able to pull myself up the short stairwell leading inside, A pleading voice with implied puppy dog eyes, the one she relied on when she knew she was in deep shit, spoke from somewhere in the train yard. Cindy?

I threw myself through the door, barely visible through the tears burning in my eyes. And, as I slammed it shut behind me, Fiona called out one last time. You can't leave me alone. Oh, oh, maybe I was down there a little. long. Oh, probably shouldn't have been apple bobbing for the entire duration of that story.

Oh, I'm feeling a little lightheaded. Ah, but hey, I have a bunch of apples now. And isn't that really all that matters? Apples and pears and cakes and smoked hams and all sorts of other delightful treats. Mmm, I'm hungry now. Might be time to crack out my Halloween feast. And speaking of sumptuous feasts, I'd like to invite you all to sit down with me and enjoy one.

It's a lavish spread as is tradition, put on by Halloween's most gracious hostess. And there are all sorts of guests. There's Morgan and Bryce and Hannah and Beth. But in this tale, shared with us by author Krista Carmen, we meet another guest who maybe isn't quite so welcome. Performing this tale are Mick Winger, Danielle McCray, Jessica McAvoy, Alexis Bristow, Nicole Goodnight, and Mary Murphy. So tuck in your napkins and prepare your cutlery because we're all cordially invited to

Millicent Blackwood's Very Scary Halloween Social and Tea. The invitations were sent out three weeks prior and had requested the presence of her four closest friends at 8 o'clock sharp on Halloween night. When the doorbell rang at 7.50, Millicent knew without looking through the sideline window, who was at the door? Damn that, Morgan. She'd be early to her own funeral. Dark eyes squinting in concentration, Millicent placed a peppermint patty atop the final red velvet cupcake, so that the freshly frosted RIP appeared identical to the other 12 chocolate tombstones bedecking the holiday treats. Coming.

She glanced approvingly at her crisp white toga and leather sandals in the foyer mirror before hurrying to open the door. Standing before her was a tall, black-clad, green-skinned woman who had to duck to avoid hitting the point of her witch's hat on the doorframe as she leaned forward to pull Millicent into a hug. Upon releasing her friend, Morgan looked Millicent up and down, her green face blank for several seconds, before breaking into a devilish grin.

Well done, Mill. I'd say, I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too, if Hades hadn't gotten to you first. Holding up a finger as if to say, watch this, Millicent contorted her face into a pained expression and lifted the foam boulder that hung from her neck over her head. Morgan's laugh was silvery and light, A far cry from the wicked witch of the West's cackle, she stepped into the house at Millicent's request.

Honestly, best costume ever. What a clever, unique idea. Millicent shut the door, turned around, and saw the look of pure astonishment that had taken over Morgan's face. Holy shit, look at this place. Must have taken you days to get everything ready. Weeks, really. Millicent shrugged. But I love Halloween, so I don't mind.

I love decorating, coming up with new spooky ideas. I thought of doing a whole Greek theme, harpies, sirens, and the like. But in the end, I abandoned it for the traditional fair. Morgan scanned the kitchen and spacious living room beyond. Candles glowed from every black table-clothed surface, interspersed with witches, ravens, black cats and ghosts. Sugar skulls filled the domes of innumerable snow globes, and cotton spider webs hung from every corner of the ceiling.

Apothecary jars emblazoned with words like snake-tong brew and wolf-claw powder lined the shelves and windowsills. This is really impressive. It's like better than Pinterest. Millicent gave it. her a quizzical look, but Morgan was peering into the depths of a large dessert bowl on the sideboard. Is this a graveyard trifle? I actually saw this on Pinterest. She turned back to Millicent, sheepish.

I know the invitation said not to worry about brinking anything, but I was perusing the internet and trying to come up with something. I saw this and thought it was adorable. She bent down and pointed at a gummy worm just visible in a layer of pudding. But ultimately decided it was a bit outside my skill set. Millison smiled and gestured deeper into the kitchen. I certainly don't think we'll be running out of food. For the second time since entering the house, Morgan gawked, but Millicent crossed in front of her to a massive vat of punch,

taking up a ladle in the shape of a skeleton's hand. She stirred the plastic iceball ice cubes so that each one seemed to inspect the first guest to Millicent's tea party in turn. She spooned a generous amount of the electric green liquid into a witch's cauldron cup and held it out to Morgan. We'll have tea with our sugary treats later, but first some heartier fare. Would you like some crackers and cheese to go with your...

Coming! Her strappy sandals scuffed along the tile floor. Millicent would have guessed that Beth would be arriving next. Bryce and Hannah were usually late, so she was surprised to find three costume figures crammed onto her front porch. Check or trade. Hannah's bride of Frankenstein hairdo had the normally five-foot-two woman towering over her comrades. Bryce shivered next to her. Please say the treat is to let us in. It's freezing out here. Can't be that cold. Look how erect your, uh, your hair is. Hannah flicked the head of one of Bryce's wig snakes.

Bryce glared at her. Well, looks like you're definitely being turned to stone. I used to be stone. Stone cold dead until I was reanimated. Well, I appreciate your enthusiasm. Can you two get in the house so Millicent can stop standing there with the door open? Bryce stepped forward, shaking her head. Thanks so much for having us.

Millicent looked down at Beth's costume. She wore a long blonde wig, parted in the middle, thick cat-eye liner, and a huge pregnant belly, a bloodied knife protruding from the bulge. Millicent poked the silicone and cocked her head. Bryce pushed past Beth and into the house. She's sharing Tate. And don't worry, we already told her it's an extremely poor taste. Beth pursed her lips.

It's Halloween, Bryce. You can be whoever you want. Like Millicent here, who chose to be a... Now it was Beth's turn to cock her head. Roman Warrior? Millicent smiled but didn't correct her. Hannah followed the other two women inside, and Millicent closed the door. Like Beth said, thanks so much for inviting us.

A Halloween tea party? What a novel, fun idea. It was a novel, I suppose. Back, uh... Oh, I don't know, years ago now. Millicent herded the newcomers toward the kitchen table where Morgan already sat. Now it's just fun. He've been throwing a Halloween tea party for years. Geez, Beth, just because Millicent didn't live here last Halloween doesn't mean she didn't have friends in Texas.

Rice's gaze followed their hostess as Millicent whisked over to a stack of plates. I'm sure this party was a big hit regardless of where and when you threw it. Satisfied she'd effectively negated Beth's. rude comment, Bryce pulled out the last empty chair, wiped a snake tendril out of her eye, and finally looked at the spread before her. The table was like something from an Adam's family wedding. A plastic skeleton, the size of a child, lay on a tray that covered the center portion of the table. Its rib cage host to a variety of meats and cheeses, crackers, bread, and chips, leaned like rows of dominoes on either side of femurs, ulna's, and vertebrae.

Broccoli, carrot sticks, celery, and cauliflower filled the spaces in between and a dish of dip balanced on the skeleton sacrum. A two-tier dessert tower held glossy, glorious candied apples. While a three-tier tray across the table contained sugar cookies frosted to look like pumpkins and spider webs, a delicate antique tea set waited patiently on a skull-shaped tray. The interiors of the black cups with gold trim adorned with vampire bats and sustained. suspicious-looking ravens. Flickering candles and dishes of candy corn, assorted chocolate bars, and Halloween-themed conversation hearts were inserted wherever there was an empty space, which wasn't much considering the haunted gingerbread house at the foot of the meat-and-cheeked

skeleton, marshmallow ghosts rising from its graham-cracker roof and candy pumpkins crowding its wafer door. Millicent regarded her four friends as they took in each painstaking detail. She grinned. Yeah. I suppose I've really mastered the art of putting on a Halloween party, though I always keep them small. They're more fun that way, despite all the hard work, and easier to spend quality time with friends. I won't argue that. So, can I make a sandwich out of the skeletons excess ham and cheddar? If his innards are all fair game, I've got to tell you, it looks delicious. Millicent held out the first of the first of the the sugar skull print dishes.

By all means, let's eat. And talked and laughed for over an hour, refilling their plates regularly with sandwiches, snacks, and finger food. Food that looked far less sinister away from the crevices of the prone skeleton. After a lively conversation about the quality of men in Massachusetts, Hannah took a swig of punch, dabbed at her mouth with an orange and black striped napkin,

and said, So, why did you leave Texas, Millicent? Working at a candy manufacturer with us gals isn't a bad gig, but I don't know anyone who'd move across the country to do it. Millicent moved a candle a few inches to the left and snagged the stick of a candied apple. She looked around the table and not seeing what she needed, stood and moved in the direction of the sideboard,

rifling around in a drawer. I certainly didn't plan to end up here, but I needed a change. Believe it or not, I got the job at Neko because I worked at a slaughterhouse in Texas. I guess they think a production line is a production line, no matter what's at the other end of it. She tilted her head to one side, peering into the drawer's depths. To make things even creepier? Millicent paused, unearthing a massive butcher's knife, checking it for sharpness, causing it to reflect in the candlelight.

She shut the drawer. My friends in Round Rock all said that the farmhouse I lived in looked like something out of the Texas chainsaw massacre. She returned to the table, knife poised before her. I was sick of the heat, sick of the year-round blood and death, sick of the strange, isolated house. Bryce, Beth, Morgan, and Hannah all looked at her unblinking. Millicent slowly sliced the candied apple into thick, even chunks. When she finished, she offered each woman a piece. Reluctantly, they took them.

Millicent reached across the motionless skeleton for another apple and began the process all over again. I'd always wanted to live in New England. The history, the foliage, Victorian-era cemeteries, folklore and life. legends, not to mention the notorious custom of people keeping to themselves. It's the perfect place for someone like me who lives by Halloween. You mean lives for Halloween? You're such a know-it-all, Bryce.

But Millicent looked fondly at the snake-haired woman. Right. Lives for Halloween. Now who's ready to trade in their plates? I've got new ones for dessert and we'll each have a cup of my specialty. Hannah stood. That sounds lovely, but please, let me help you. Oh, no, Hannah, I insist. Sit, relax.

Enjoy yourself. Let Cisipus roll his mighty boulder. Laughter rang out across the table, but Beth sat silent, looking bewildered. Where did you get the idea for that amazing costume? I don't get it. You're obviously some sort of grueldered. Greek person or something, but what's with the rock?

Seriously, Beth, didn't you pay attention in English class? It's okay. I always pick slightly obscure costumes and I don't mind explaining them. In fact, I enjoy it. I also always dress up as someone who, whether real or mythological, has cheated death. That's what Halloween is all about, right? wearing costumes to disguise oneself as a ghoul or ghost on the one night of the year when those very beings walk the earth.

Who have you dressed up as in the past? Forget that. I still want to know who Sisyphus is. It's Sisyphus. And for Zeus's sake, Beth, you're hopeless. Millicent scuffed in her leather sandals back over to the table. The dessert plates were jack-o-lantern faces carved in different iterations. In Greek mythology,

Sisyphus was a king, infamous for cheating death not once, but twice. First, he tricked the personification of death, thanados, and detaining himself up which kept death from being able to go about his work. In the second instance, he convinced Hades to let him back into the realm of the living, to instruct his wife to perform the proper rituals and offerings that should be afforded the dead. The very rituals and offerings Sisyphus had informed her not to perform before he died. Once he was released from the underworld, he, unsurprisingly, did not return. He wasn't so much as a clever man as he was a deceitful one.

Maybe so. But when it comes to pursuing a longer life, is there anything that isn't fair game? Bryce looked as if she had something to say to that. But Beth piped up first. But what about the rock? Where does the rock come in? Sisyphus' punishment for tricking death was to push a massive boulder up a mountainous hill, only to have it roll back down the other side every time he reached the top.

Millicent smiled at Morgan, pleased she knew the myth so well. A never-ending task. Punishment eternal? Punishment eternal? Perhaps. But I ask you this, which is better? An endless unavailing Sisyphian task? Or the finality of death?

The other women looked at her, judging the seriousness of her statement. Before anyone could respond, could comment on whether or not they agreed, Hannah broke into a fit of giggles, which the others quickly joined in. Sensing the conversation had reached its natural death. Millicent started covering her grinning jackalantin plate with a variety of cookies, chocolates and red velvet cupcakes. With groans of resignation,

Morgan, Bryce, Beth, and Hannah dutifully filled their plates. The teapot on the stove began to whistle. I don't even notice you put the water on. Neither did I. Millicent carried the steaming kettle to the porcelain teapot on the table, removing the teapot's lid,

she poured boiling water through heady tea leaves already situated in the strainer. When the leaves were completely submerged, she replaced the lid and returned the kettle to the stove. By the time she took her seat at the table, Beth was reaching for the teapot's handle. Millicent placed her hand on Beth's. Oh no, it has to steep longer.

Sorry. Beth pulled her hand back. You know, we really should get Halloween off from work. We're employed by a goddamn candy company. We get Jesus' birthday off, but not a day on which to remember legions of the dead. Good point. Neco would never go for that. They probably think a single evening is more than enough to stuff yourself with candy and binge on scary movies.

Hannah popped a rhesa's pumpkin into her mouth. They'd be half, right? We can't fault them for their shittiness. 60,000 people want to petition the government to move Halloween from the 31st to the last Saturday of the month. So it's safer for kids to go trick-or-treating. Save for the candy company's stock options, you mean? Neko has one thing going for it. Hannah paused, blushing.

It brought the five of us together. Aww. Hannah blushed harder. What? It's true. Millicent poured the dark amber tea into the fifth and final cup. She took a saucer and handed it to Hannah, who passed it to Bryce, and so. one until everyone held one.

Hannah is absolutely right, and I, for one, would like to make a toast. Is there milk and sugar? Christ, Beth, you're the worst. Millicent, ever patient, merely smiled. After one sip of this tea, you'll see that it doesn't even need it. Beth raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more. Anyway, a toast. First, to Morgan, the first person I met when I was.

I started at NECO. Morgan taught me all the tips and tricks from moving fast and packaging candy even faster. Without her skilled and nimble hands, I wouldn't have learned my own job so well. Morgan bit her lip and lowered her eyes, touched by Millison's words. Next to Beth,

who gives new meaning to the idea of paying attention to one's body. Beth quickly taught me to make the most of our 15-minute breaks, and I don't know how many times. we snuck out at lunch for a manicure or a massage. Beth raised her cup as if to take a sip and was quickly met with a reproachful stare from Bryce. Lowering her cup onto the saucer, she glared right back at her contentious friend.

Then she folded her hands in her lap and looked demurely over at Millicent. Then to Hannah, who has the biggest heart. Thank you for being so sweet to the new girl, so genuine and empathetic. Hannah had wedged two candy corns over her teeth, in a reasonable impression of vampire fangs. When Millicent finished her impassioned speech, she blew her a kiss through the orange-striped canines. Last but not least, to Bryce.

Here, Millicent held up her cup and tilted toward the snake-haired woman. Your brains have gotten me out of more candy-coated pickles than I can count. I am so very grateful to you, to all of you, for such a wonderful year at the New England Confectuary Company. Happy First and only Millicent Blackwood's very scary Halloween social ante. She raised the teacup to her lips. The other women followed suit, taking tentative sips to test out the temperature, then greedier gulps once the flavorful liquid flowed across their tongues. Each guest of Millicent's tea party drank down a significant portion of their tea,

thirsty from all the carbohydrates and sweets and sweets and eager to show their appreciation to their host. Morgan was the first to put her cup down. She stared confusedly at Millicent. You said you threw this party every year. Her words were slow, measured, maybe even a little slurred. Beth was watching Morgan watch Millicent. What do you mean? She said, the first and only,

Millicent Blackwood's very scary. Morgan faltered, trying to think. A moment later, she regained her train of thought. Halloween, Social, and Tea. How can it be the first and only if she hasn't? every year. Beth wasn't listening. She groped her cheeks as if anxious to discover the absence of Novacaine after a trip to the dentist.

Bryce? Huh? Bryce was staring hard at Millicent. A drop of blood had formed from nowhere and sat like a jewel on her bottom lip. It's not my first and only party, but it will definitely be the first and only one. For all of you. No one screamed. There were no gasps or cries or shouted accusations.

The only sound that came following Millison's declaration was the rattle of bone against glass as each woman's head dropped forward and collided with her dessert plate. Cutting up her former friend's bodies and sewing the necessary parts into a single perfect specimen took a long time, but not nearly as long as it had to prepare.

prepare for the social. By the time her doorbell rang, Millison's creation was propped at the head of the table. The patchwork woman had the hands of Morgan Patrick, elegant, bedecked with one of Millicent's favorite rings and rinsed clean of their green makeup. The new woman had the body of Beth Trelawney, slim and strong and mercifully free of that silly fake baby belly. She had the heart of Hannah Finn, Bloody, innocent, powerful, and true, though motionless forevermore. And she had the head, or more specifically, the brains, of Bryce Collins. Bryce's silky, soft, raven-black hair, not the foam heads of Medusa's snakes, perfectly covered the stitches that would have been at home as part of Hannah's bride of Frankenstein costume.

Millicent took one last look at her creation before hurrying to answer the door. The figure that stood on her porch was tall and clad in long black robes. Its face was imperceptible, represented by a terrifying bottomless pit. Millicent knew from experience not to look into that hole. When the figure spoke, she heard its voice inside her head. Its vibration was like the creek of oars propelling a boat across the river Styx. Yes, I do know why you come. Before you take what you came for, however, I'd like to see the invitation again.

A skeletal hand holding a scroll of parchment parted the layers of shifting robes. When she took the scroll from that hand, the legs of 10,000 beetles crawled across her skin. She rolled the parchment open, flattening it enough to make out the words. She read the invitation out loud. On all hollow's eve just before midnight, I come to Millicent Blackwood's door to collect what is mine. By smell, I claim her body,

nimble hands so swift to work, that build and smother fires. Muscles, tendon, bone, a body that never tires. An open heart, once pulsing and true, to love and hate and flounder, and a brain that plans and schemes and is as bright as any encountered. Millicent lifted her gaze from the invitation and risked a look into death's blank face. The same as last year and the same as the year before.

She gestured behind her to the patchwork woman in the chair. You have come to Millicent Blackwood's home for a body, but, based on what is written in that letter, this is the body you will leave with. A blast of freezing air as stale as if expelled from a tomb came from somewhere beneath the robes. She felt death's anger at being tricked, felt the figure staring, taking her in, assessing her new home. the fact that another year was visible upon her face, comprehending the costume that she wore. In the subsequent fury conjured by the figure, the patchwork woman, the replacement Millicent,

was hauled forward across the kitchen and into death's embrace. I do not do this year after year without suffering the consequences. She gestured to her costume. And this is not a mockery of a moment. of you and all you stand for. Rather, it is a reminder that my actions grant me nothing but to reprieve. A stay of execution. She took a step back and lifted the foam boulder over her head, striking the well-known pose. Another year in which I spend pushing my boulder up the cliff.

The figure turned to leave. It's rage at being tricked again, still tangible and fierce. But I ask you this before you go. Death turned back. Witch, an availing, Sisypian task, or the finality of death. Tasty story. Shame not everyone got to enjoy the party as much as Millicent did. But hey, that's Halloween for you.

It's like the old sinister witch who lived on the corner of my block when I was growing up used to say. In Halloween, there are winners and losers, and you don't want to be one of the losers, Cord Swain. You want to grab those people by the throat and shove your Halloween candy down their gullets. Hmm. And I used to say, ma'am, my name's David, not Cord Swain, and can you let go, please? You're hurting my wrist. But looking back, she was right. Some people survive Halloween, and some don't. And speaking of survival instincts, our next tale, features a girl who doesn't have many. At least, that's how she finds herself trapped and bound to a chair

after trying to perform a mysterious ritual on Halloween. When will these people learn? But in this tale, shared with us by author Manon Lyset, we learn that things are not always what they seem, and the bad can become the good, and vice versa. I perform this tale alongside Nicole Goodnight. So listen to the legends, then think about what they might really mean. It's the only way you'll survive Halloween at Hogan's Crick.

Oh, young lady. Ow, did you just bite me? I swear to gut. Hey, no scratching. That's it. You can't be trusted. I'm getting tape. My mind was going a mile a minute.

I remember the palpable confusion, like falling asleep in one spot and waking up in another. Even as old man Hogan tied me to a chair in his dining room, I still wasn't sure what was happening or how I'd gotten there so fast. I felt like one of those fainting goats, so completely ensnared by fear that I could no longer function, except it wasn't my body that had gone haywire. It was my brain. The hem of my dress was glued to my legs wet and freezing cold like snow-soaked mittens in the winter. The rope around my legs didn't help as it forced the fabric snug against me, I thought I was done for as Hogan rifled through a drawer. I imagined him pulling out a large carving knife and slicing my throat open, scooping out my

innards and stuffing me with hay as a warning for others. Everyone knew he didn't like people on his property, especially on Halloween. But instead, he came back with a box of kitchen salt. Coture, not that it mattered. What he did with it was puzzling. As he mumbled something about them. Presumably, my friends and me, he poured the salt around my chair and then went through his little cottage home pouring lines at the foot of every door. I tried to ask what he was doing, but with the tape over my mouth, it only sounded like noise. Hogan headed for the kitchen sink and checked on the bite on his forearm. Funny, how I couldn't remember biting him. Crazy what instincts will make you do. Good. Didn't break the skin. What am I going to do with you?

What was he going to do with me? I shuddered to think. He lumbered over dragging a second chair behind him. He sat a few feet away and rubbed circles into his temples. Why did you ignore the warnings? Why doesn't anyone ever respect the warning signs? Keep out. It's two words.

You can't tell me you and your friends aren't able to read two words, are you? He sounded exasperated and almost disappointed. Maybe I need to put one of them angry emo face things on them. Only way you kids listen nowadays. I stared daggers at him, hoping he'd get the very clear message of dissension I was sending. He sat there for a long while in silence, shaking his head and mumbling to himself as I fought against the restraints to no avail. He got up to check the kitchen window, sat down again, and finally addressed me. I know why you're here.

I stiffened. Did he really? Girls like you come every year on Halloween. You think I don't know what you're doing down in the crick. Doesn't matter how many times I chase you all away, you never learn. I put up signs and you ignore them. I build fences and you jump them. I shoot the sky and you scurry away,

but you always come back again the next year. Like moths to a flame, did work? I have rotted my gaze. You don't have to answer. I know it did. I saw you through the window. That's why you're here now. I saw you floating a good three feet in the air, reckless youths.

So he did know. I suppose it made sense. He owned the property, after all, even if he was a recluse, everyone knew the legend of Hogan's Creek. Let me guess. One of your friends put you up to it. You thought, hey, it couldn't hurt to try. Worst case scenario, you get a little wet. But that's what people your age do when they get too old for trick-or-treating. They go thrill-seeking. You should have stuck to horror movies, kid. Something slammed against the kitchen window making us both jump. Shit. I craned my neck to see what had made the sound, but there was nothing by the window except a lit jack-o-lantern and some carving supplies. Hogan must have been cleaning up when he saw us through the window above the sink. He got up and drew the curtain shut.

I could hear light tapping noises now like rain hitting a window or our fingers drumming against a table. It was then that I noticed the shotgun leaning against the wall near Hogan's chair. They say you can awaken latent supernatural powers if you perform a ritual in the crick after sunset on Halloween. They say if mystic blood flows through your veins, you'll levitate above the stone circle. That's what you and those other girls were doing, wasn't it? I reluctantly nodded. Maybe a little honesty would buy me some trust and get him to lower his guard. He tutted and shook his head, stroking his salt and pepper mustache.

My whole life, I felt different, like there was something special about me. I always had this, I don't know, electric energy inside. That's why I joined the others at Hogan's Creek. I thought if anyone had some sort of secret witchy pagan power to awaken, it'd be me. It'd be my turn to outshine. And I was right. I'd felt the weightlessness take over. I had floated, all on my own. I was special. But just as I was in the throes of euphoria, Hogan had stormed over. My so-called friends had scattered, and before I knew it was happening, I was being dragged by the arm into his house. A strong gust of wind through the kitchen window wide open, sending its curtain flirting

dangerously close to the jacko lantern's flame. Had I done that? Hogan cursed again and grabbed his box of salt, hurrying into the kitchen to spread a line of it along the window sill before closing and locking it. He moved the jacko lantern to the middle of the counter and then proceeded to pour salt beneath every window. They're persistent.

He looked at me inside again, giving me a pitying look. So you and your friends believe those dumb urban legends snuck onto my property and went into the creek to mess with forces you can't even begin to comprehend. Could you really call it a dumb urban legend if it worked? As for, friends, I wouldn't go that far. Friends wouldn't have turned tail and run without so much as checking on me. And now here I was, bound and gagged in some creepy perverts house. But yes, that had been the gist of it, and I nodded in agreement.

The ritual had been simple. On the east side of Hogan's property was a line of trees around a beautiful ankle-deep creek. The bottom was coated in a fresh layer of red and orange leaves, and when the water was still, it became a near-perfect mirror. It was picturesque, like something straight out of a painting. About 10 feet from the shore was a stone circle that barely avoided the surface of the water. I suppose in a drier season, it might have been used as a fire pit. There were a few different retellings of the legend, as is always the case,

but the key things stayed the same. On Halloween night, hold hands around the stone circle, wait until the water is perfectly still, and you feel something in the air. Once you feel that supernatural pool, everyone throws a leaf into the air and takes note of the order they land. The last leaf belongs to the person with the most potential.

The last leaf was mine, so I was the first to go. Let me guess. You played light as a feather, stiff as a board, right? The still wet tips of my hair and the line of soggyness from the bottom of my dress to the nook of my neck could have confirmed that for me. The creek water had been cold, but it was pivotal to the ritual. You know that game's only physics, right?

I mean, obviously, in your case, it was, well, more, but normally it's just physics. The index and middle finger are the strongest. You can easily distribute the weight of one girl to four or five. But, again, I know that's not what happened to you. Like I said, I saw you. I saw them and... There was a violent knocking at the door. Ignore that.

He sounded stressed. I fought against my restraints and started screaming at the top of my lungs, hoping it was the cops or my so-called friends or parents. I needed them to know I was inside. That's not going to do you any good. You're just going to tire yourself out. Save your strength. We're going to need it.

Right now, I need you to pipe down and listen to me. I'm not opening that door. There's nothing good on the other side. If it had been the cops or my parents or whoever, wouldn't they have called out? Something wasn't right. Though I couldn't tell for sure, I could have sworn I was hearing multiple sets of hands

bashing against the wooden door. I was suddenly starting to feel more afraid of what was behind it than of the strange old man who tied me up. Hogan's hand reached for his gun, but his fingers merely grazed it before the knocking ceased. Hogan seemed to relax, wiping sweat from his brow. Don't worry if the walls start to shake. This old cabin stood for generations,

and it's not about to fall today. So, where were we? Ah, right, the girls. They hoisted you up playing that old parlor game. That's when I saw you in the window. I came running as fast as I could, but I was too late. They'd already let go by the time I got there. These old legs of mine ain't what they used to be, I'm afraid.

No, surrey. Maybe if I'd been quicker. If I'd shot a warning shot, this wouldn't have happened. You could have been safe at home by now. He paused and looked at me sympathetically. Despite everything, he had the warmth of a grandpa in those eyes. And no, I wasn't succumbing to Stockholm syndrome. Something banged on the wall behind him, causing his shotgun to topple over.

He quickly grabbed it and set it down on his lap, gripping it protectively. Oh, so persistent. We don't have much time, and I'm going to need your cooperation, so let me cut to the chase. In about a minute, I'm going to open those curtains and let you see what's out there. If you promise to stay in that chair and keep quiet, I'll untie you. The whole house started to quake. I nodded an agreement, not because I necessarily believed him, but because it was my only chance to make a run for it.

Look, the ritual, the stone circle, awakening your powers of levitation, it's all bullshit. Pardon my French. Whatever you felt, whatever you thought you were doing, it wasn't you. What we're hearing out there, that's what was lifting you up. I was so confused. They only ever take one. They're clever like that.

Most Halloweens, they'll lift up a girl or two who will excitedly share the story. But then there's the one. The one they keep. The one they'll drag deep under water. Under water? The creek was barely half a foot deep. You're not granted powers. You just become part of a cycle.

You become one of them. He pushed himself to his feet with a groan. Shotguns still in hand, he walked into the kitchen and opened the curtains. My heart stopped. Can you see them? Can you see them outside the window? I could. There were dozens of them, maybe more.

Their pale faces and blue lips were glued against the glass. They almost looked fake, like someone had purposefully done a ridiculous, stereotypical dead ghost girl makeup look on all of them, bags under their eyes and everything. If you told me they were actresses, I almost would have believed you, except they were see-through. And that, well, that's not as easy to fake.

If you step outside this house before sunrise, they will take you. They will drag you back into the crick and they will drown you. And next Halloween, you'll be one of them. You'll be dragging some poor girl down into the water. Do you understand why I can't let you leave? Will you stop screaming? I hadn't even realized I was screaming.

Because of the tape, I sounded like a squealing pig. I piped down and nodded emphatically. Whatever was going on, whatever was out there, I'd rather face it unbound. I'm going to untie you now. Stay here. Do not move. I nodded again and he carefully removed the tape from my mouth. What the actual hell are they?

Hogan tied my legs first and then my hands. I was tempted to bolt for the door while I had the chance, but I could hear banging all around the house now. They were out there. We were surrounded. They're ghosts, I think. Best I can describe. They'll disappear at dawn.

Don't worry. What's your name, kid? Piper. Okay, Piper. I'm Jeremiah. Jeremiah Hogan. We're going to get through this, all right? Yeah, yeah, whatever.

How do you... Why do you even live here with those things out there? They went back to tapping at the windows, fingertips like raindrops coming from all over. It was like a cycle of rain and storm, of weak and strong. Hogan looked at me sadly. I couldn't leave my sister. Your sister?

My heart dropped. Why was it, I immediately imagined him accidentally drowning her in the creek and living his life in regret. He started rocking in his chair, clutching the shotgun close to his chest as the ghosts outside peered in. It happened 63 years ago. We were just kids. She was two years older than me. We all knew the story about the creek. Joan and her friends wanted to try it out.

Me? I wanted to go into town trick-or-treating. But I had to wait for Joan. She promised it wouldn't be long. So I sat on the edge of the crick in my little vampire costume while she and her friends lit the candle pentagram. Hmm, I don't think kids these days do that step anymore. Doesn't matter. The whole ritual's just for show. Anyhow, they started playing and the first girl went up and she floated a few feet. I watched, eyes wide. The second girl went up and again she started floating as though by magic. Then it was my sister's turn. She was giddy with excitement as she stepped into the stone

circle and fell into her friend's arms. Lucky her, I thought. It sounded like she hadn't needed to lay down in cold water. She closed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. and after a few moments and an incantation of some sort, I forget what they were chanting, she started to float. But that's when I noticed something. I counted the girls, and there was one more than there should have been. I noticed because the spot in the circle where Joan had been standing had been filled, as though there had never been a gap.

And that struck me as odd. Otter yet was the water. It had become pitch black, like tar. It started to bulge out over the stone circle. They continued their chant for a bit, and suddenly, just as I was about to warn them, the water was reaching for her, Joan fell in. He tensed.

His eyes were now on the kitchen window. I noticed one of the ghosts bore striking resemblance to him. Her friends did nothing as she was pulled under. It was like they were in a trance. She fell deeper in, deeper than our shallow creek. I tried to run to her, but as soon as I reached the water's edge, I felt an unshakable dread seizing me down to my bones. All I could do was yell for my parents as I circled the creek, trying but failing to

break the girl's trances and get at least one of them to reach down and see them. save her. I could see her hands sticking out of the water as though she was reaching out for help. But it sunk and disappeared beneath the surface. And then the water became crystal clear again. And my sister was nowhere to be seen. Holy shitballs. I was able to run into the water and I pawed at the spot where she disappeared while her friends snapped out of it one by one. I couldn't understand why they weren't helping, why they weren't panicking, why they insisted they didn't know anyone by Jones' name and had just snuck onto the property on their own. I couldn't understand why my parents never acknowledged my sister after that night.

It's like she never existed. They erased her when they took her, wiped her out of existence. I felt my stomach turned into knots as he said this. That could have been me. If he hadn't dragged me away, that would have been me. The next Halloween, another group of girls snuck into the cricket night. I watched from the window and tried to get my parents to stop them, but they didn't care. Not even when I told them I could see Joan standing in the circle with them.

They still acted like they had no idea who Joan was or that anything was wrong. Wouldn't even look out the window to check. They still didn't care when another girl went missing the next year. No one cared. No one listened. Maybe that's unfair. But how can so many girls go missing without anyone noticing? It's not like their bedrooms and belongings disappeared.

Who did everyone think their clothes and dressers and beds belong to? It's like everyone's just... It's like they have blinders on. Sometimes I wonder if they do know what's going on, but they just pretend they don't because it's less painful. Oh, but I don't think that's what it is. Too hard to fake. I stopped trying to convince people around the time they started calling me crazy and threatened to have me committed. I'm sorry, Jeremiah, that's awful.

For what it's worth, I believe you. And I did. I mean, I hadn't, up until I'd seen the ghosts in the window, but they'd been irrefutable evidence. Man, the way they stared at me gave me the creeps. Why don't you do a, I don't know, an exorcism or something? For the longest time, I couldn't bring myself to do it. Not when I could see my sister at the creek every Halloween.

By the time I was old enough to realize it was better to end the cycle once and for all. I was already too late. There were too many of them. They'd gotten too strong. Instead, I vowed to keep people away by any means necessary. Hence the glaring through the window, the signs, the fence. Exactly. But teens be dumb, yo.

Yes, teens be dumb. My feet were getting cold. The whole room was getting cold. The window was fogging up, but I could still see the figure shifting about outside. And now, I knew exactly what they wanted. wanted to do with me. I wrung my hands and lowered my gaze and that's when I saw it. Is that water? Jeremiah looked down. There was a small wave creeping along the wooden floorboards towards us. The combination of intermittent tapping, banging and shaking had masked the sound of the

steady trickle of water. I'll go check it out. Stay in your salt circle where you'll be safe. Don't suppose you left the bath running? We both knew he hadn't, but he checked all the same. It's not coming from the bathroom. I could hear his footsteps as he rushed from room to room looking for the source. The water crept even closer and it wasn't until it reached me that I realized what it was doing. Jeremiah, the salt! He came running back and grabbed his gun as the water dissolved my protective circle. I'm not sure if it was him or me who realized the water was coming from the chimney,

but it was already too late. As the water reached the front door, it dissolved our last line of defense. Oh, no, crap. This didn't happen last time. Last time? You're not the first person I tried to save after the start of the ritual. He got up and pressed his weight against the door as something slammed into it violently. Every year I try to save them. The salt was supposed to work. It should have kept them out. I don't understand.

Last time, last time the problem was the girl. I guess she didn't believe me. She couldn't see them. I didn't think to tie her up like I did you. As soon as I looked away, she ran out and they swept her away. I didn't think they could get inside. Never got this far before. The door swung open with great force knocking Jeremiah down and burying the gun somewhere in the deep. Whatever you do, don't touch the water. It'll suck you in. I crouched on the chair, but I was in no less danger as the figures emerged from the water. No, they didn't emerge from it. They were part of it. They were controlling it. Joan, no! I looked to my left and saw a girl standing over Jeremiah. She shoved him down. I didn't know what to do. I was starting to panic. The figures were swimming

closer to me, hands outstretched. With a gargle, Jeremiah's head went under. Everything suddenly went quiet. Like, I don't think it was a supernatural thing. It's like my brain muted the world so I could stop and really think, you know? Or maybe it was a pre-death clarity thing. I don't know. Whatever it was, it was suddenly dead quiet. The world slowed to a trickle and I caught a gleam on my right. It was the fire poker next to the fireplace. The Jacko Lantern's flame was reflecting on its handle, drawing my attention to it. Without even thinking, I leapt out of the chair landing in shockingly cold water as the ghosts closed in on me. I grabbed the fire poker swinging it at them like a softball player. To my surprise, they dissolved in splashes of water. Iron, I thought numbly. It was a

stroke of pure luck. The world came crashing back in, the momentary slowdown ending abruptly. I swung the rod around back and forth as the ghosts came closer, pulling myself through the now waste-high water trying to get to Jeremiah. The girl, his sister, Joan, was still standing over the spot, still holding him down. I got her right in the chest, and she exploded into black water. Breathing heavily, I started pawing around in search of Jeremiah. It was impossibly deep. Where my hands should have touched the floor or Jeremiah or something,

I felt only a void, but I wasn't going to stop trying. A cold, dead hand grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled so hard I thought it was going to dislocate my arm. I twisted around and managed to dissolve. with a weak swing of the fire poker. Time was ticking, but I had an idea. I wrapped the rope that had held me captive earlier and tied one end to my ankle and the other to the nearby table.

I then took a deep breath and plunged into the water. I needed to find him. I had to. He would have done the same for me. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Gone was the house, and in its place was an ocean of deep, dark water with ethereal forms circling,

sharks. They were swirling downwards forming a current to drag me down. It wasn't cold or warm. It was numbing. I almost wanted to close my eyes and let myself go until I saw old man Hogan sinking in the depths. He would have been just out of reach, if not for the fire poker. I stretched as far as I could go, feeling a tug on my ankle where the rope was tethering me to the real world. I caught him by the shirt. It started to tear as I pulled him towards me, but I twisted the rod to get a better grip. Dumb of an analogy as it is, picture spaghetti on a fork. I finally got him close enough to wrap an arm around his chest. I had no idea if he was still alive or dead, but I kicked up with everything I had in me. The water was heavy like a chain net weighing me down, but somehow,

some way, I found just enough strength to break the surface. The water parted around us in a splash like a foot through a puddle. Then it receded, trickling out the door as I struggled to catch my breath. I was soaked to the bone, freezing cold and shaking. Jeremiah inhaled much to my relief. I didn't know whether it was over yet or if a second wave was coming. I was white-knuckling the fire poker like my life depended on it because, for all I knew, it still did. I rolled off Jeremiah letting him get his bearings while I untied myself. I saw an orange hue and at first, I thought it was the jack-o-lantern's flame again, but then Hogan spoke weakly. I looked at the horizon and, sure enough, there was a thin line of light.

Dawn came much earlier than I thought, though I suppose time under the water might have marched differently. I peeled myself off the floor, making my way into the kitchen to look out the window. A circle of girls stood hand in hand in the creek. One by one, the links of the ghostly chain disappeared. At least, until next, And with that, we come to the end of our Halloween special. It's been a riot, a blast, a sinister occult ritual from which no member of the human race will emerge unscathed. But now it's time to turn off the porch lights, snuff the pumpkins, and... Oh, wait, hang on.

There's one more tale here. A final tale, if you will? A tale so terrifying, so anxiety-inducing that it can only... close the show on this, the most horrifying of days. So, for one final time, for one final tale, let us move onwards unto the breach, my dear friends. For in this tale, we learn of an ancient tradition of Sawin, one that many of us may not know. But in this tale, shared with us by author Marcus Damanda, we learn why it's a tradition we should heed. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Tanya Milosevic, Matthew Bradford, Dan Zapula, and Atticus Jackson.

So put out the pumpkins, fill the candy bowls, don the costumes, but whatever you do, hide the knives. I peeled back the top of its skull, then went in with a steel ladle. No matter how many times I do this, it's still totally gross. Bindy was focused on carving out the eyes on hers. She didn't look up. I was tempted to peek over the makeshift table partition between us. Perhaps if you were to remind yourself it is only a pumpkin, Sasha. There would be less of a chance you will throw up in it.

Seriously, the squelching of scooped pumpkin guts, brains, really does sound like something out of a horror movie. And the image, the marker-drawn face, me holding the top open by its hardened stem before ripping it off, only made the comparison more apt. Do kids carve jack-a-lanterns in Germany? Oh, yes. Bindy gave a half-smile, still concentrating. But then she withdrew the carving knife and turned her whole pumpkin upside down, shaking it so that more pumpkin guts splattered onto the wax paper. You might be surprised how similar my little town is to Woodbridge.

We even have television. Sarcasm, but nothing mean. We were just comfortable with each other. We'd hit it off right away. Belinda Bindy Weber was here on Foreign Exchange. I'd learned of the host family opportunity last spring at school. I was an only child. Bindy was 16, like me, and her application had said she spoke perfect English.

She wrote perfect English too, better than I did, as I learned when I wrote her a letter in May and got one in return, but I hadn't been able to get mom and dad to sign off until they'd spoken to her on the phone in June. She'd charmed them from the first. Her academic record was flawless, and she played soccer, which was an automatic character recommendation as a very much. as far as my dad was concerned. I opted for a steak knife to cut out the nose. Kids go trick-or-treating in your little town? Hmm.

Bindy wiped her fingers with a paper napkin and tossed back a thin lock of glossy black hair that had come free of her ponytail. Not in unspuck, no. They only do that in the cities, and only on my side of the wall. Sousa Sos is so derisorin. I used to be so jealous hearing about it, but we do have our own traditions.

Couldn't be as messed up as what we were about to do tomorrow afternoon. I couldn't help but think. It was October 30th, 1988. In Woodbridge, back in the day, there was a small pocket of unowned land between the High's convenience store and Telegraph Road that served as a makeshift cemetery for stiffs with no family to bury them properly, or none willing to cough up the money. Stiffs like rosemary barrows, Garth Toddle, and Butch Sully. This Halloween, at dusk.

Such as? I was trying not to think about it. Tomorrow was tomorrow. Bindy took up one of the thinner knives and got to the more delicate work lower down on her pumpkin. We do not do Halloween all in one night, Sasha. Grandmother tells me the dead walk the streets of Ansbach for ten nights beginning tonight. Not tomorrow. And seek entry into people's houses.

They are drawn by the light, the life behind closed doors. Grandmother sounds like a buttload of fun for little kids. Nightmare as much? Usually they haunt their living families. No one has ever seen them, though many hear them. They mean no harm. But we do take precautions. Someone at this table is officially enjoying herself?

She brandished her small pairing knife. Tell me, where will we put these when we are done? The sink? Duh. And after they are clean, where then? I pointed behind me to the kitchen drawers. Like, where do you think, Helga von Doom? If grandmother were here, Charlie's Angel, she would tell you that you endanger yourself and your family by doing that.

She would insist you hide the knives. She is very protective. Hide the knives. Seriously? Where? Top of the refrigerator? Under the beds? She shook her head. You will want to do better. The dead will look for them. They mustn't be allowed to find them. In grandmother's house, there's a small, removable bit of wall behind the painting.

Bindy, you are so full of shit. And in my house, we lock them safely in the room. a basement. We have not been bothered. Sure you haven't been. A little bit crazy. Kind of cool for Halloween, though. We carved on in silence for a while. I was getting pretty happy about my jackalanturn. I couldn't wait for us to be done, to lift away the partition we'd set between us and compare. But what would they do if they found the knives? You think they'd kill us all? Bindy sat back, looking very much satisfied for her own part. She smiled broadly.

Her fingers stained orange-brown and positively dripping pumpkin brains. That would depend on who found them. A bad ghost might do that, but for most of them, Sasha, we are more afraid of what they might do to themselves. And at that, her smile melted away. Her face became pensive. They are very sad, Sasha, the dead who are still here and will not let go. Jesus Christ! Dad, he'd come right on in without announcing himself, although, I suppose, coming into the kitchen one isn't exactly expected to.

Bindy started in her seat, letting fly a most untypical squeak of surprise. Oh my God, you scared me. Nothing compared to dads, though. He'd come in from the living room, which put him right behind my relatively new roommate and in perfect position to see her jack-a-lantern. But then he laughed, still clutching his heart. I realized in that moment, so was I.

He leaned over Bindy's shoulder. Holy cow. Kid, that's so good, it's upsetting. Bindy rocked in her chair, delighted. Thank you, Mr. Alston. The two of them. Gag me. A hem?

I didn't bother to be subtle, motioning my father over to my side of the partition. Better have a compliment ready. But for a long moment, he didn't move. He reached down to the table. His hand, when it was visible again, held Bindy's newspaper clipping. What on earth? Here it comes. The clipping was just a picture, a grainy old black and white photograph of rosemary barrows.

We'd played a quick round of high card to see who got to use it as a sort of subject for jack-o-lantern carving. I'd ended up stuck with goofy old Garth toddle. Dad came around to my side of the partition, tapping the clipping of Garth Toddle I'd positioned just off to the right of the wax paper. So let me see if I can fill in the blanks here. You two have been talking up the local legend, the lonesome ghosts of the Minneville Road Cemetery,

and then you dig up this from the Sunday style section of the paper. Naturally, the unclaimed corpses of Woodbridge, Virginia. are disinherited dead. Halloween, after all. Bindy had been all in from the start. And you somehow thought it wouldn't be in poor taste to carve pumpkin heads in their honor. How very metal of you.

Damn right, Daddy-o. I pointed two fingers onto my Megadeth shirt. Bindy was more of a scorpion's chick. You don't think those mine, do you? From her, it might have been. been a serious question. Dad studied my pumpkin. I was most proud of the mouth with its gap-toothed idiot grin, but I'd also done, I think, a pretty impressive job with the droopy eyes, carving under them just a bit without cutting through to suggest the baggy eyes in the picture.

He smiled. Nice. And what's the prank this year? I have a feeling these two deadheads aren't destined for our front porch. Couldn't tell you, Pops. We'll put them out for tonight anyway. Then, remembering one particularly bitter Halloween from a few years ago, hopefully no one kicks them apart while we're asleep. Dad's face was soft, but somehow stern at the same time. Well, whatever you're doing, it's not just Halloween tomorrow.

It's Monday, which means you can't be out past ten. No matter how hard Casanova tries to talk you into it. Casanova, aka Sammy Tanner, my boyfriend. I saluted, drawing a laugh from Bindy, who quickly stifled it with her hand. Dad turned back for the living room. Hope you plan to clean this up. We had planned on making pumpkin pie, actually, and Bindy said she knew the best way to make roasted pumpkin seeds, too. but it was after five.

Any minute now, and... You forgot something. What's that, Mr. Olston? Butch, Sully. He passed back through the door, behind which, dimly, I could hear mother inquire whether or not it was a good idea

for her to come in here and see what we were up to. But we hadn't forgotten Butch Sully. Neither of us wanted anything to do with him. And besides, my Sammy had picked him already. From the other side of the partition, Bindy cocked an eyebrow at me. On three? I put my hands on either side of pumpkinhead Garth. One, two, three. And on three, Bindy cackled with laughter, seeing what I had done. Seeing Bindy's, I might have screamed myself, but I caught the exclamation behind my hand just in time. Her pumpkin was rosemary barrows, at least in that one moment caught in the newspaper picture.

Of course, this wasn't true in a physical sense. There was no way Bindy could have recreated her wild shock of unkempt stringy black hair, the paleness of her face, the humanity. of a 40-year-old woman. But the expression in that face was on full display, and Bindy had even managed an approximation of the sunken cheeks by pushing in the sides of her pumpkin. Her jack-o-lantern was terrified.

Its jaws stretched wide in a scream that had been frozen in time. Within those jaws, the teeth were unsettlingly convincing, but the lips over them were drawn back tight. Its eyes were wide with despair And inside the gaping mouth The place where the candle went Would be like an inverted uvula At the back of its open throat

You like? We should have a picture of us holding them together We took the picture before Sammy showed up Ten minutes later, bringing his own pumpkin with him But it wasn't entirely necessary We had the picture already, in a sense. There on the wax paper on the kitchen table, the real picture of Rosemary Barrows, hands tied behind her back, being frog marched by townies to a makeshift gallows in 1920, screaming her innocence.

She was the first. The sun was going down as Bindy lit the candle in her jack-o-lantern. She hadn't read the article in the style section, and I hadn't needed to, having lived here my whole life. She was a field nurse overseas during the war. Letters home from the local boys on the front called her An Angel in the Dark. Then, three years after she came home, she's hanged by an angry mob of her own people.

Bindy shook out the match and stepped back. Good God! What was her crime? We were on the front porch, setting up our one-night-only Halloween decorations as promised. Anyway, Bindy and I were. Sammy, with his sleeves hiked up almost to his shoulders and kneeling down on spread newspaper, including the Clipped Style section, worked feverishly to catch up with his own Jackalanturn. I was tempted to help him.

He was just off a shift at Waxy Maxie's Records and Tapes, and he'd come bearing tickets to the new horror movie Child's Play at Potomac Mills. He'd even gotten a ticket for Bindy, hopeless gentleman that he was. We had an hour and ten minutes before showtime. Just now, Bindy had distracted him. She was never charged with anything. He flicked a wedge of pumpkin rind from his fingers into the tin bucket I'd sat next to him.

But everyone said she killed this old rich dude she was supposed to be taken care of. I sighed, knelt next to Sammy, and gently took the knife from his hands. Boys carving skills left much. to be desired. The old dude in question was Barney Delicourt. I reluctantly turned my gaze to the black and white mugshot of Butch Sully and suppressed the shutter.

And he was old money, going back to the gold rush out west. Bindy crinkled her brow in confusion at that. Never mind. The important thing is, Rosemary was live-in care, like hospice. Only no one knew he was going to die. But after she was named in the will instead of his family, the delicorts of Woodbridge demanded they dig up the newly buried corpse into an autopsy. Sammy sat back on his hands, watching me do his work. He had a bright blue twinkle in his eye.

Somebody killed him, that much is sure. He had poison all through his system. Bindy regarded her pumpkin. And what do you think? Do you think she did it? Sammy shrugged. Probably. The way the story goes, no one else ever came to visit the old dude.

No one gave a shit about him. But when Rosemary got his money, that they cared about. They were murderers. All three of them, if you believed, the newspaper. All so long ago, so removed in time from the Woodbridge of 1988, with its shopping centers and commuter parking lots, its 7-Elevens and video stores. If there remained any family to the killers buried at Minneville in town,

they either didn't know it or chose to keep it secret. And if so, it was hard to blame them. Rosemary, all things considered, was probably the nicest of the three. Garth Toddle, with his droopy eyes and his gap-toothed idiot grin, had killed a night shift gas station clerk for $10 in his register. In 1950, he chose suicide over the electric chair and hanged himself with his own bed sheets. And Butch Sully?

He'd put out a no-trick-or-treater sign on his front door on Halloween night, 1960, which had had the opposite effect of what he'd intended. Kids had pounded on his door half the night, and then three older kids had come just before midnight to toilet paper the trees in his front yard. Butch Sully had been awake the whole time. He'd put an end to the mischief from his front doorway with a shotgun, and expressed no remorse when given his last opportunity to speak right before the hood went over his head.

We turned in at 10 o'clock, which was our usual crash time on a school night. In the basement bedroom we shared, Our territory was divided pretty evenly, and I'd been happy to surrender the space. Bindy and I had a lot in common with music, so poster choice wasn't a problem. There'd already been an extra bed in here for when relatives visited, and when I ended up on couch duty. Best of all, Bindy was typically of no mind to chat it up when the lights went off. We were both pretty serious about school. Not quite goody-to shoes, but close.

She almost always fell asleep before me. Just hearing her soft breathing slow had become a personal lullaby to me, guiding me to dreamland not long after her. But tonight, that didn't happen. The rhythm of her breathing didn't change. By 11, I was tempted to ask if anything was wrong. But by then, I was drifting off, and I awoke with a silent start, and was instantly glad I hadn't made a noise.

The digital clock on my nightstand read midnight. By now, mom and dad would be in bed too. But I had heard the bedroom door click open, ever so quietly. And now, through my half-litted eyes, I saw a shadow in the doorframe, deep black against the shadowy hall. Faintly, by the glow of the clock, I saw that the shadow bore in its hands above, bundle of white cloth, like a large dishcloth or hand towel. And as it came inside, I realized through

the fog of half sleep that the shadow was Bindy. I slowed my breathing. Relaxed it to sound like Bindy's shallow sleep breaths and narrowed my eyes to slits. I watched her kneel in front of the dresser and set down her bundle, and I continued watching, actually rather impressed by her stealth, as she eased out the lowest dresser drawer and set it on the floor without so much as a creak or squeak. Into the now empty hollow of the dresser, she set the bundle, afterwards replacing the drawer. You must be choking before mom gets up.

If she notices... But then Bindy laid herself down, flat on her back in bed, eyes on the ceiling. In whispers and hissed, She's, eyes blinking, lips trembling, she prayed in German. And although her voice was quiet, even though my German wasn't half so good as Bindy's English, I could make out just enough to translate.

I hid the knives, protect us from the restless dead. Give us peace until the morning light. Shortly after that, her breathing slowed. Her trembling stopped. Like that, Bindy was out, sleeping soundly in the knowledge she had kept us all safe. I smiled fondly at her in the dark. Then let sleep take me as well. I got up before her in the morning, but I didn't get out of bed.

I remained still, other than to roll over and check the time again. It was 5.30. The parental unit would be up in half an hour. If Bindy didn't get up 15 minutes before that, I'd have to rouse her. I'd... She sat up. Stretched. Then yawned behind her hand. Gently as she could, she eased herself onto her feet.

I kicked the covers off and sat up. Come on. I'll help you put them back right. She stared at me, wide-eyed. Bindy, there's no need to do this again. Listen to me. And even in the dark, I could see the hurt in her face. She didn't say a word. I believe you, okay?

For Ansbach. You live there and I don't, and I trust you. But I've lived here forever. And we've never hidden the knives. and nothing bad has ever happened. But you did not know to hygynice before. You do not anticipate the dead, and so you may not be attuned to them.

I held out my hand, palm up, a peace gesture, not shushing her. I stood with her. We'll talk later. Let's put the cutlery back before Mom calls Father Hadley to have the house blessed, right? She nodded, but when we were creeping through the living room towards the kitchen, Bindy turned to me, still holding the bundle. Her eyes pooling.

Sasha, I am so sorry. I have broken the rules of your house. I just had to. Huh? Bindy, no. Everything's cool. I was afraid you'd be mad at me. We'll just... I am aniseabo tonight. I'm scared, Sasha. Well, hot-damned Halloween. I led her into the kitchen with my arm about her shoulder. Frightened she may have been that Halloween morning after she had hidden the knives. But when the bell rang at the end of seventh period,

Bindy was as eager as I was to get to our lockers, pack up our stuff, and get the hell out of dodge. That is to say, Garfield Senior High School. I cannot believe Mr. Little gave us math homework tonight. She swung on her backpack and joined me at the end of the lower locker hall. I could. As far as most of the grown-ups at school were concerned, our Halloween had been celebrated last Friday at the What in the Sam Hain dance,

and tonight was for the ankle biters. We were lucky to have gotten that dance, we'd been told. After the Punch Bowl spiking incident at the Woodbush, Bridge High Senior Prom last year. A kid had ended up dead at the end of it, and a group of parents had petitioned the school board to call off school dances in Prince William County for a year, or permanently, just like in footloose.

Some people. He's a jerk. We'll skip it in protest, like everyone else. Bindy rolled her eyes at me, knowing neither of us would. We passed outside through the smoking court, waving our arms, hacking and coughing all the way through it. Beyond that, the parking lot, and Sammy. And Sammy's dusty, battered white pickup truck with our ready-made decorations in the flatbed.

He was back there himself, working on his own promised contribution, having left the final pumpkin head to me after all. But when he saw us a summer. emerge from the side doors of the building. He stood one of the dummies up so we could see. And that was one smug smile on his face as he held the thing upright by the shoulder and gestured to it like Vanna White. So what'd you think of our rosemary?

All right, color me impressed. I didn't think you would actually do it. But he had, and there they were. Three scarecrow's nailed to three long, thin, wooden stakes. Sharpened at both ends and fitted with crossbeams, their arms spread as though crucified. They were currently headless, of course, but their proportions were otherwise surprisingly convincing. Where Sammy had gotten the black dress for the standing rosemary scarecrow, I had no idea. But I figured he'd acquired the striped prison uniform.

forms for Butch and Garth, who were still lying flat, from the costume shop in Acoquan. He'd even bought real Heckenger's straw to stuff them with. He stepped out of the cab to meet me for a kiss. What? Yeah, I said I would, didn't I? Bindy stood with her arms crossed over her chest, clearly uneasy again. How many people did you say were taking part in this? Sammy pressed my hand as he drew back.

smiling, winking at her. Well, let's see. Hannah, Tyrone, Lenny, Jill, Corbin, everyone, I think. I don't get it. I sat across from her on the flatbed while Sammy drove, our three scarecrows between us. You were so excited about this two days ago. Yes, two days ago we were only talking about it.

Now we are doing it. I laughed, not in a mean way. I totally got that. If I had a dollar for every time my friends and I talked about doing crazy things and then backed out of them, Bindy, it's Halloween. Kids have been partying in that graveyard on Halloween going back as far as I can remember. If that place was ever like sacred ground or something, it isn't anymore. You'll see.

She regarded me, unconvinced. I leaned across the scarecrow's to give her shoulder a gentle teasing push. And I'm not supposed to tell you, but I have it on good authority that Corbin likes you. Let's try to have fun, okay? We passed the highs on our left. The intersection of Telegraph and Minneville was less than a mile ahead. And finally, just as the pickup slowed and turned onto gravel, Bindy Smith. mild. It was practically a garbage dump. The cemetery at Minneville Road was a canvas of sparse,

patchy grass, a few sagging trees, soft earth, easier digging, and several decades worth of debris, crumpled pop-top beer cans, broken beer bottles, styrofoam cups, discarded fast food bags. The whole eyesore was easily visible driving past, yet no one ever bothered to clean the place up. or if they did, it was just impossible to maintain. I thought it likely that the Hyes convenience store deliberately used it as their own personal waste disposal area. They didn't have a dumpster. The markers for Rosemary, Garth, and Butch

were newer than the graves themselves. Simple metal plaques, grown green with age, and drilled into stones embedded into the earth. Those and the others, 16 and all, were spaced out at intervals no farther than eight or ten feet from each other, making a rough four-by-four checkerboard of the abandoned dead. One more. Sammy grasped the last stake near the top,

while Bindy and I clenched it farther down. We'd already fixed it so that it was half a foot in, positioned maybe 18 inches in front of Butch Solie's plaque. Ready and go. As one, we drove it deep in. into the ground, giving it our full weight, and then stepped back. It held steady. Then Bindy, her eyes still troubled, knelt and passed me Butch's pumpkin head.

But she dutifully stayed on her knees, clearing away a few shards of broken glass first, so that I could climb onto her shoulders. Bindy was lithe and quick, but also sturdier than I was. She wrapped her arms around my lower legs and stood with me. I placed the jackal antern over the sharpened top of the stake and impaled it over the striped prison uniform, completing the scarecrow. About us, our friends cheered and laughed. Hannah and Lenny, who were an item going back to freshman year,

Tyrone, who'd sharpened the stakes yesterday in the woodshop room after school. Jill, who it turned out had supplied rosemary's dress, and Corbin, who, along with Sammy, took me each under an arm and lifted me from Bindy's shoulders, Chuckling. What time again? Corbin sidled up next to Bindy and raised an expectant eyebrow. Say, 9 o'clock. It'll be dark and no one will care. Just about everyone will be in for the night. Bindy and I shared a look. were supposed to be in by 10.

Maybe eight instead. Kids will be done by then. We won't be bothered. And that was true. Trick-or-treating tended to wrap up around 7 or 7.30 most years. And it was a school night. There was no need to wait until nine. Sure.

Sammy took my hand, then turned to Corbyn. You got the supplies? You sure? Big bro come through. With a tilt of his head, as though begging permission without words, he held his hand out to Bindy. Tentatively, blushing, she took it. We'll be all set. We went home. We did homework, had dinner.

Dusk settled in, then darkened. Night fell. We handed out tutsy pops and sweet tarts and nestly crunched minnie's from the open front door of my house, pronouncing every Disney princess a beauty, every scowling and growling elementary school monster a terror. Mom and Dad were only too happy to delegate this task to Bindy and me, until 7.30, when Sammy and Corbin came calling for us in the dusty white pickup again. I'm going to try to explain, objectively, what happened in the hours that followed.

I don't know if I can, but... I'll try. My old English teacher at Garfield, Mrs. Shelby, always said the best way to beat Riders' block was to just break the white space with the words, this is what happened. But that won't work for this. Instead, here's something that didn't happen. Whether because I'd gotten through to her earlier, or there just hadn't been an opportunity, whether she still felt guilty about last night or made a decision not to

force her own traditions upon her American host family, or perhaps less likely, she simply forgot. Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter now. On Halloween night, Bindy didn't hide the knives. The scarecrow's with their jackal-anturn heads stood out in stark silhouette, moonlight filtering through the surrounding trees like floodlamps. Sammy pulled the pickup alongside the gravel entry and parked, hiking back the emergency break. He leaned out the driver's side window. Party time. Then he winked at me.

From my place next to him in the passenger seat, I rolled my eyes at him. Ahead of us, just in front of the graveyard itself, was another car. And prancing about the scarecrow's, the living shadows of Hannah, Lenny, Tyrone, and Jill. hailed us with cheers and applause. The beer had arrived. Corbin, holding one of our two cases of Natty Light, set his free hand on the side of the flatbed and vaulted his way over onto solid ground. Then he held up his hand to Bindy, as though to guide her down. Instead, she hauled up the second case and put that in his hand, opting rather to help herself over much as he had. She shot him them a wry smile.

You realize that beer your brother bought is dog piss? Not that I don't appreciate the gesture. I won't argue beer with a Deutschelin chick. Best an underage Yankee can do. I did not doubt, coming out of the truck opposite Sammy and starting the short track up the barren slope to the graveyard with them, that Bindy had had a beer or two already in her life. The rules in Europe about such things were, and as far as I know, are more relaxed than they were in the States.

And she was right about Natty Light. I doubted that bargain basement swill would survive without its black market adolescent clientele. Nor would Bindy and I have taken more than two or three brews in the couple of hours we had, no matter the brand. We still had the parental unit to deal with when we got home. school the next day. So I told myself, but it was Halloween. Tyrone had brought his boombox, and we were in a graveyard, openly partying over the final resting place of the lonesome ghosts of Woodbridge, Virginia. Soon, everyone was having a very good time. It's easy to lose track of the beer count, circumstances like those. All right.

Corbin suddenly stood up and stretched, kicking an empty beer can off to the side. Time to recycle some of this. What was it, Bindi? Bindy took a sip, made a face. It is hund piss. Damn straight. Corbin strode over to Butch Sully's marker, unzipping the front of his pants. Oh, my God.

My God. I looked away, caught between revulsion and a half-drunken giggle of my own. Take this fucking kid killer. Then he did it. To the raucous delight of my friends, Corbin actually freaking peed on the small gravestone. And the others, all save Bindy and me, were fixated. I shared a look with her. She mouthed at me, time to go home.

I nodded before even checking my watch. It was 10.15. Oh, dad would be unthrilled with me, with us. Then a flash from behind me, where Corbyn was zipping up after doing his business. A collective gasp. For a hot second, I thought it was. Likely someone had shown a flashlight on him. And wouldn't that have been a kick in the teeth if the cops had shown up just in time to find dumbass Corbin desecrating the most notorious graveside in town?

But then Jill screamed, and Bindy screamed. Sasseride, rising to her feet and taking a single, shocked step backwards. I turned, it was the scarecrow. More specifically, It was the scarecrow's head. The face I had cut into the pumpkin had included a basic Halloween maw of knife-shaped teeth, which I'd done mostly from sheer laziness, but it also signified the predator which solely had been in life.

It had lit up from the inside. Real flame. There wasn't even a candle in there anymore. But even if there had been, it would have fallen well short of being able to account for the ball of fire we could see through its gaping mouth, its narrow triangular wedge cut for a nose. Smoke curled from the hollow of the pumpkin, seeping through its eye holes. Six feet to my left, Garth Toddles pumpkin flared to life, belching fume. Eight feet to our right, Rosemary's head ignited with a hiss like a freshly lit fuse. And beneath our feet,

Before we could turn to run, the soft earth of Minneville Road Cemetery seemed to fucking melt. The sound that followed, the gathering wail of horror that filled the cemetery, was almost as terrifying as watching the three heads simultaneously explode in dripping fire. Like Napalm, I heard my own voice in that scream. And Samis and Bindies, all eight of us. but none more than Corbin. We were all sinking into the ground. I had fallen forward, the ground opening under me, taking me ankle deep, shin deep.

But Corbin had already been swallowed to the waist. The ground about him breathed with unearthed subterranean life. Maggots and worms blossoming out from the ground, rippling in his pants and shirt. He'd taken the brunt of the pumpkin napalm as well. His right arm was on fire from elbow to shoulder. His right cheek blackening and smoldering just under the eye, skin opening in a bloodless, inch-long slit to the bone.

He found words. The ground had me to the knees. Bindy had been taken in just as far, but only her left leg. She'd managed to prop her other foot on a thin, rectangular gravestone, which she leveraged with all of her weight, howling pleas of forgiveness. The ground under Corbin opened in a monstrous mouth, vomiting earth and worms and centipedes, even as he went down in it to his chest. The fire in his flesh, which most of the rest of us had taken only superficially, if at all, was snuffed out. But the grave of Butch Sully seemed

determined to eat him alive. The scarecrow's, all three of them, burned under moonlight. And though we screamed bloody murder just off the side of the road for anyone to hear, the cars simply kept driving by. Couldn't they see what was happening? No one did. Instead, as the scarecrow's fell apart, dripping Heckenger's straw soaked in ruddy flame. As the stakes that had propped them up crackled to blackened kindling.

And as the eyes in Corbyn's head rolled back to the whites, inchworms and maggots criss-crossing his flesh on their way to his open mouth, the ground let go, or at least it stopped eating us whole, though we remained held where we were. Bindy, who had managed the whole time to keep her footing on one leg at least, was the first free. She didn't come to me next, though, and I didn't blame her. She went to Corbyn, and not out of love, not out of mindless teenage infatuation.

Far from it. No. Of all of us, Corbyn was the only one who looked like he might already be dead. The dead, meanwhile, went on. Left the cemetery, I saw them go. All 16 of them. Phantom globe lights that departed in file but fanned out as soon as they hit the road. Cars drove through them.

No one saw them but us. Bindy, she was still screaming, crying, trying with every fiber of her strength to wrench the much taller and heavier Corbin free from the unforgiving ground. I threw up. Beer bile, nothing else. I heaved and heaved and emperienced. did myself, wondering if it would start again. If this was the end, it wasn't. Not of us.

Nor of the final night, the lonesome ghosts of Woodbridge remained tethered to this world. Sammy would not get up. I shook him by the shoulders, but no matter what I did, Sammy wouldn't move. He lay flat, as Corby did beside him, blinking up at the moon as though blind and mute. Lenny, Jill, Hannah, and Tyrone had already left. I could hear the not-so-proverbial burning of rubber as Lenny's duster ground its way over gravel

and screeched onto Minneville Road. They hadn't said a word. They'd left everything behind, even the boombox, even us. Next to me, Bindy let go of Corbyn's. rest. She was impossibly calm. Half of her face blackened by smoke. Her fashionably bleached jeans splattered to the waist with dirt. The shoulder of her scorpion's tea had been burned through and still gave off thin wisps of smoke. Sush, we must go. I reeled on her. And fucking leave them here?

Are you crazy? Those fucking things! What about when they come? back, Bindy. They won't. She stood, coming to me, holding out her hand. They are out, Sasha. They will not come back. Bindy, how can you even know that? Would you come back if you were them?

Sasha, we have no time. Your parents! My breath caught. She was right. Frantically, I jammed my hand into Sammy's pants, pocket, fished out his keys, and wrapped his fingers around them. Get your shit together, Sammy. I leaned in, kissing his cheek the hell out of here.

I got to my feet. We ran fast as we could. And, if I do say so myself, that was pretty damned fast, even by the standards of soccer players. Straight onto Minneville, we ran. I had it in mind to hail the first car we saw. Neither of us could drive ourselves, much less than Sammy's manual shift pickup. But it was past 11 now. At this hour, there wasn't much traffic.

People were at home. Parents were relaxing in front of the TV after tucking their candy-stuffed progeny to bed. Older kids would be turning in after homework, after coming home from this party or that. They weren't out providing taxi service to stupid kids like us. At the intersection of Minneville and Old Bridge Road, about three quarters of a mile from telegraph, and where the gas stations and convenience stores gave way to houses, we heard the first sirens of the night. They were distant, but drawing closer. For a moment, Bindy and I stopped running.

We stood listening, the sound of our late. breath louder than that of the summoned police, screams from one house, then another. Lights fluttering on inside one of them, as though produced by a lamp held in a shaking hand. A door crashed open, and a woman wearing only a nightgown came hurtling through the opening. Off her feet as though she had been thrown. She rolled out onto her front lawn, where she lay face down, still breathing. She was blood smeared, but not dead. The wooden hilt of a steak knife jutted from the hollow of the collarbone by the neck.

Her husband, presumably, but who knew, followed after, backed out slowly, hands held out in front of him as though warding off an attacker. But there was no attacker. There wasn't even a luminescent will of the whist. there was only a short, thin, glittering blade, wielding itself, slashing out on its own, tearing flesh, stabbing his chest, a quick whisper of blade across his lower jaw. Through the empty air, it swished and hissed and plunged into him again, this time into his stomach.

The man uttered no sound. He never even screamed. Maybe he couldn't. I could. And I did. Screaming. Thinking maybe to draw the incoming police after us. I made as much noise as I could.

And Bindy did too. As we sprinted for all we were worth in the direction of Treehouse Drive. Home. If the ghosts we had unleashed upon our town had anywhere in particular in mind to go and wreak havoc, I knew my house would have to be at the top of that list. It was still three miles away. I flung the door open and charged inside. Bindy was right behind me.

Mom, Dad, Mr. Olson, Mrs. Olson. Never mind that their goddamn car wasn't in the goddamn driveway. The lights were on, though the television was off. At least one of them might be here. but there was no answer. For a long moment, Bindy and I just stood still, heaving breath, listening hopefully. They went out looking for us. I held my chest, gathering wind, but I nodded.

It was almost 11.30, and Bindy was almost definitely right. If she was, then thank God for that. The thought struck me. How many people are dying tonight because of you, Sasha? Twice on our way here, we'd seen police cars, and both times they had hurtled straight past us. Lights swirling, sirens blaring. Whatever calls they were answering

had been evidently more pressing than the sight of us running the streets. And as awful as that was, I understood. There had been more screams, blood-curdling cries in the night. and rescue vehicles, ambulances. Lights of all colors swirling atop vehicles already crowding the driveways of first one house and then another. Don't think. Look, Sasha, make sure your parents aren't here. Make sure they aren't. I made a move to run again, but Bindy caught me by the arm.

No. She was earnest and terrified, as though she had read my thoughts. and found them wanting. No, nothing is disturbed. They're not here, Sasha. She took me by the shoulders, pinned me in place with her eyes. First. I nodded.

Hide the knives. As one, we went for the kitchen, bounding through the living room and crashing through the swinging twin doors to the kitchen together. There were two cabinets, side by side at which. waste level, where the knives were stored. On the left, the bigger knives for food prep. And on the right, regular table knives, butter knives and steak knives. That's the one I went for. Both drawers opened before we could get to them, as though an invisible hand had yanked them out. They were empty. The knives were gone. The lights went out everywhere. Oh shit.

In that moment, I hadn't any breath to scream. Standing next to me, Bindy moaned, we turned to run and stopped again in place. Before us, as if his prison costume hadn't burned to smoldering racks, as if his pumpkin gored for a head hadn't exploded like a massive cherry bomb, stood the scarecrow of Butch Sully. His empty eyes lit with an Eldridge silvery glow. We reeled back around, only to find ourselves facing the phantom of Garth Toddle. The mockery of a face that I had carved with my own hands rocking back and forth on his straw shoulders like a bobblehead from hell. In either hand, he brandished a butcher knife. Those knives glittered with an unnatural silver glow, reflected from a bow.

reflected from his droopy eyes. And he laughed, rich, slow, southern drawl that echoed as though we stood in a vast and empty space and not my own kitchen. As for Butch Sully, he made no sound with his voice. But he scraped the blade of his stolen meat cleaver across the granite countertops as he drew closer to us. then over the steel of the sink making it screech his pumpkin rind fangs mashed together as his impossibly alive jaws worked open and shut open and shut and then he stopped

frozen in midstep from between his jaws there suddenly emerged the tip of a steak knife dripping orange-brown pumpkin pulp He had been stabbed from behind. He stood rigid, arms by his sides, and dropped the cleaver. The white straw-stuffed glove that had held it twitched, then followed it to the floor. Garth Tottle roared, his gap-toothed idiot grin rounding to a perfect oh. Both of his knives raised over his head to finish us.

Bindy and I remained hopelessly fixed where we were, paralyzed by terror, as the shadow behind Butch Sully passed through him. Then, through us, like an unexpected autumn breeze through a hot summer haze, and fell upon Garth Toddle, knife flashing, plunging, scattering straw. Still, Bindy and I remained where we were, a silent world. witness to the impossible confrontation of the lonesome ghosts of Minneville Road. Even as the shadow finished the Garth Tottle with a savage slash across where his throat would be, if he only had a throat. The jack-a-lantern between his shoulders bobbed once, twice more, then rolled from over the front of his body to smack wet and heavily onto the linoleum floor.

For a moment, just... a moment. There she was. Rosemary Barrows, field nurse and murderer, dead by the hands of her neighbors, with her shock of stringy black hair and the black dress she had worn to her own hanging in 1920. Her soft, dark eyes regarded us both. She said nothing, but in my mind I heard her speak in my own voice. A phenomenon, Bindy would swear she had experienced as well, but in her voice, I did not kill him. I loved him, but he killed himself in doing so.

Though he did not intend it, he killed me. The lights came back on. Save for me and Bindy. The kitchen was empty. There remained no sign whatsoever of the Minneville phantoms that had come to us that Halloween night. Not so much as a fleck of straw or a pumpkin seed had they left behind. But the kitchen knives lay scattered across the floor. Bindy slumped across the countertop.

One hand over her heart. I still couldn't talk. I was processing what had just happened, and what I had just learned. In the murder of Barney Delacourt, Rosemary Barrows had been innocent. She was, indeed, as the young soldiers in her care overseas had declared her, an angel in the dark. Our angel with a blade. our protector from our own foolishness.

You Americans have some pissed off ghosts. The final death count that night was two. One was the man we had seen knifed on his own front porch, though his wife had pulled through. Another was from a similar attack across town, an elderly woman who had disinherited a wayward son, one who had ended his own life afterwards, and been buried on the side of Minneville Road. Most of the hauntings had been, as Bindy might have predicted, acquaintances or loved ones. Only hours, it seemed, had not been, unless mom or dad was holding back family secrets they really should have told me about. But I doubt that, and I never asked.

It was hard enough just trying to explain to them what had happened. They didn't believe the story, of course, no more than did the police, adamant as Bindy and I both were that we were telling the truth. Among our friends, meanwhile, Corbin insisted from his hospital bed that he remembered none of it. Sammy and the rest refused to speak about it at all, and the ground at the cemetery between Minneville and Telegraph Road seemed undisturbed by morning. So said my father anyway. It wasn't as though I went to check. As for Bindy, she stayed with us, completed the foreign exchange program, and we're still friends. We keep in touch, as much as our families and lives will allow.

And though all the town of Woodbridge has done its best to forget, and to alter the reports in the public record, the night the knives came to life on Halloween, we hold on to the truth. We know what we did. sins we committed on sacred ground. And much to the eye-rolling of my own children and my husband, for ten nights of every year, beginning on October 30th, you can be damned sure I hide the knives. The No Sleep Podcast 2020 Halloween special. As we head into the sleepless hours where you dare not close your eyes, there's nothing left for me to do but bid you adieu. Adieu. Adieu. goodbye, good night, and

brace yourself. Because even though Halloween is over, at the No Sleep podcast, the horrors never stop. No matter what happens in the world around us, we'll always be committed to bringing you the best in horror fiction. Or

is it fiction? Sometimes the truth is even stranger. What do we know, really, of real world horrors? Who's to say that ghost lurking in your closet or that monster under your bed isn't real. There's still a lot to learn, folks.

And sometimes, the veil between this world and the next is thin enough that maybe, just maybe, we could discover a thing or two about what lies beyond. But that's a tale for another time. For now, the darkness has fallen. The lights are out. And from all of us here at the No Sleep podcast, we wish you, happy Halloween. Thank you for joining us on our journey down the Lost Highway. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Mikalski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 2499. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. As the darkness fades, it feels like you're going to do.

Audio production is copyright 2020 by Creative Reason Media Inc. rights reserved. The 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.