The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S6E06 - Halloween 2015

Episode Date: November 1, 2015

It's episode 6 of Season 6 - Our Special 2015 Halloween Show with six tales about All Hallow's Eve."Through The Mask" written by Jeff McFarland and read by Mike DelGaudio & Elle Hama & Alexis Bristowe. (Story starts at 00:04:30)"On the Eve" written by J.P. Carver and read by Nikolle Doolin & Erika Sanderson & Nichole Goodnight & Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts at 00:19:20)"Burn" written by C.K.Walker and read by David Cummings & Jessica McEvoy & Elle Hama. (Story starts at 00:40:00)"I Dare You" written by Grant Riley and read by Mike DelGaudio & Jesse Cornett & Peter Lewis & Jeff Clement. (Story starts at 01:03:30)"89.1" written by Jimmy Juliano and read by David Ault & Jeff Clement & Rima Chaddha Mycynek & Nichole Goodnight & Alexis Bristowe & Erika Sanderson & Peter Lewis. (Story starts at 01:29:10)"The Last Halloween" written by William Dalphin and read by Peter Lewis & Nikolle Doolin & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 01:52:30)Click here to learn more about Jeff McFarland Click here to learn more about J.P. Carver Click here to learn more about C.K.Walker Click here to learn more about Grant Riley Click here to learn more about William Dalphin Click here to learn more about Mike DelGaudio Click here to contact Alexis Bristowe Click here to learn more about Nikolle Doolin Click here to learn more about Erika Sanderson Click here to learn more about Nichole Goodnight Click here to learn more about Jessica McEvoy Click here to learn more about Jesse Cornett Click here to learn more about Jeff Clement Click here to learn more about Peter Lewis Click here to learn more about David Ault Click here to learn more about Rima Chaddha Mycynek Podcast produced by: David CummingsMusic & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings.Halloween illustration courtesy of SabuAudio program ©2015 - Creative Reason Media - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

This is a horror fiction podcast. By listening to our stories, you are choosing to be frightened and disturbed for your entertainment. You do so at your own risk. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast. Thank you for joining us for our 2015 Halloween special. It's that special night when horror reigns supreme, and yes, that rain is likely blood pouring down on your head while you're out trick or treating, seeking all manner of candy and sugary scrumptiousness, which puts you at risk of diabetes, and that's pretty scary too. But fret not, for tonight I am told by none other than the great pumpkin, him or herself, that your bodies are imbursed.

Pervious to insulin-related disorders this very night, but not, I'm afraid, impervious to the knives and axes and chainsaws which are being borne aloft by so many faceless, nameless, and soulless villains, seeking to fill your hearts with dread and your pants with whatever is left over from all those treats you're shoving into your sweaty, petulant faces this very night. A night in which we celebrate the dark, the macabre, the midnight hour, for which we wait so our love comes tumbling down. No, not love. What am I thinking? It's your blood which comes tumbling down the stairs. Well, pouring down the stairs, I guess. And why you ask, with your chocolate stained tongues? Why is your blood gushing from your body and staining said stairs with its crimson filth?

Well, wouldn't you like to know? Well, of course, you would, or you wouldn't have asked the question, which forces me to reveal that standing behind you at this very instant is the creature of your nightmares, the creature which has haunted you from your earliest days, the one which makes the space under your bed, it's home, the one which stands right outside the shower when you cleanse your naked body.

Oh my. and the one which right now is licking its lips or other body parts in anticipation of gorging itself on what remains of your alleged brain and gooey visceral matter of your eyeballs, intestines, and the syrupy sweet bile which drips from your fetid liver, doubtless ravaged by years of alcoholic abuse and mistreatment, but I'm quite certain it will be nothing compared to. to the abuse and mistreatment coming your way this very moment as the aforementioned creature, still standing behind you lest you forgot, tries havoc and slips the dogs, cats and rats of war upon you. So brace yourself for the last moments of your life, but in the interim, enjoy the stories we've prepared for you with love. In our first tale, we meet a young couple in love, and planning for the gay or the gay or

of a Halloween party. A young man known as Jeff McFarland has crafted this tale to explain that a misunderstanding at the local bar leads to some fracturous conflicts between the couple, and that is no way to spend a Halloween night. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, El Hamer, and Alexis Bristow. So drink up and be careful which costume you choose.

Sometimes it's not easy to see clearly through the mask. I hate it, I said with a scowl. Oh, I hate everything about it. What? Come on, it's adorable. A toothy grin showed through the hole of the mask's mouth. That thing is nightmare fuel. I strolled over an aisle and pretended to look at the wigs. I hadn't seen a mask that genuinely freaked me out in a long,

time, especially not in some two-bit seasonal shop like that one. We were surrounded by cheap plastic masks, cartoonish decorations, and the stupidest batch of sexy costumes I had seen yet. Jane laid a hand on my shoulder and took a step closer. Oh, come on, Todd. What if I was wearing this and nothing else? I shuddered and shook my head. The thought sent lightning down my side. The thought sent lightning down my spine. I imagined her beautiful hourglass figure, her soft skin and long legs, everything exposed, save for a smiling pig mask. It had two tiny crescent moon eye holes and ears that stuck out from the size at odd angles. It was even a little tuft of black hair on top. If I could manage to get it up while you were wearing that thing, I'd need to be thrown in the loony bin.

I rolled my eyes. Jane pulled the mask off and laughed, slipping it over her hand like a ventriloquist puppet. Why does it bother you so bad? She wiggled her hand, causing the mask's flesh to ripple. I winced. I stared at the mask for a while. It was easier now that there was no one inside. The mouth was a wide-open grin that would have been home on the face of some deranged clown.

It had a set of human-looking teeth, which somehow made it even more unnerving. The eye holes were barely there at all. I had no idea how she was able to see out of them. I have not the slightest clue. Something about it, it's just... It's just way too dueling banjos for me. She laughed again and tossed the mask back in the bin with the others on clearance, as if anything in this place wasn't on clearance.

So is that a no to making me squeal then? She shot me a sly grin. I narrowed my eyes at her and snuck my hand down to give her a quick love tap. She jumped and scurried away, giggling. She shot me a pig squeal as she fled. I turned to follow her, but as I did, I found myself looking down into the bin. The mask was gazing up at me. It's empty-eyed stare boring into me like a dentist's.

drill. I froze. The way it folded and laid on top of all the others had turned its ridiculous grin into a large frown, like some sort of comedy tragedy cliche. I grabbed it and shoved some of the other masks aside, burying it deeper in the bin. Darling, are you coming or what? I stared into the bin. Yeah, I'm coming. We left without buying anything. We were mostly there for the novelty to begin with. Before we went out to the bar that night, we both painted ourselves up like members of some metal band, black and white face paint, leather jackets and leather pants, all of it complete with tons of needless chains and studs. We'd used those same costumes for years now. They were cheap, they looked good, and they made for some interesting escapades in the bedroom. Halloween was mine and

Jane's favorite holiday since we were in college. We almost always found some party or a concert when we went out and when we stayed home to give out candy, we turned our home into a makeshift haunted house. It was one of the rare opportunities we had to cut loose. Later that night, I sat alone in a booth with duct taped seats and stared across the bar. Lights of every color danced in time with the DJ's music, painting the zombies and serial killers on the dance floor every color of the rainbow. Behind the bar, a sign lit by blacklight red, show up in costume, drink half fall. with a crudely drawn pumpkin beside it.

Jane was over at the bar. She was smiling big and laughing at whatever the fucker in the pig mask was saying. Of course, he had to be wearing that mask. It wouldn't have happened any other way. Couldn't make out what either one of them were saying. I stared into my glass, swishing my drink around and drumming the fingers off my free hand on the table. The music pulsed around me.

Some crappy remix of the monster mash, swallowing my thoughts and causing my head to buzz even more. The guy in the pig mask had been taking advantage of the half-priced drinks. I watched him as he bought Jane and himself a shot. Then another and another. Now she was giggling about something he said and her hand was on his shoulder. I realized I was clenching my teeth. The guy put his arm around her waist.

Oh, fuck no. I slammed my drink in one gulp and bolted up from my seat. I half shoved, half stumbled past the people on the dance floor. My step seemed to match up with each thump of the bass of the music. The other side of the bar felt a lifetime away with my vision swaying back and forth. The combination of the music, the lights, and the room's movement made me feel like there was a hornet's nest in my skull. Oh, Todd! We were just... Jane couldn't finish before I shoved the man in the mask against the bar.

The guy sprawled backwards. His back shook the counter and his drink flew from his hand. Todd! What the fuck are you doing? Stay out of this, Janie. The guy in the pig mask had already recovered. He stepped forward and now we were nose to nose. I swear I couldn't see anything past that mask. There were no eyes in the slits, the mouth only a dark cavern. I stood eyeballing the fucker for what felt like in eternity. My fists clenched tight and the hornets in my head were raging louder. My head pounded in my ears and Jane was shouting something at me, tugging on my shirt sleeve, but I didn't hear a word she said.

I was craving it, just itching for this guy to say the wrong thing, to make the wrong move. What? You got a fucking problem? I barked over the music. The guy just smiled at me. Smiled real big, his yellow teeth shone the black light, making the pigs grin that much more disgusting. The bartender, a woman dressed up like Tim Curry from the Rocky Horror Picture Show, had noticed the scuffle by now.

Hey, is there a problem here? The guy chuckled and shook his head, but didn't look at the bartender. No, ma'am, not at all. He gave Jane a nod before he turned. and disappeared onto the dance floor. My whole body relaxed. Suddenly, the room was spinning much faster than before, and Jane wasn't shouting anymore.

She was only glaring at me. What? Did I interrupt something? I plopped down onto one of the stools leaning against the bar. I could tell by the look on her face that that was the wrong thing to say. You know what? Yeah, you did.

We were just talking. about how I came here with my boyfriend, who I love very much. I felt my shoulder slump. I should have just apologized and shut my damn mouth, but my brain was losing the battle against both my adrenaline and the alcohol. Oh, you have a boyfriend, you love very much, but you'll happily keep taking drinks from some skeezy guy. I avoided eye contact with her.

Duh, free drinks are free dreams. It's the one good thing about being a chick at a bar. I was in the middle of telling him to step off when you stormed over here like a fucking macho man. Oh, gee, I wonder where he would get the idea you were available. It's not like your boyfriend was sitting alone across the bar while you were sucking down drinks from some stranger. I can't even talk to you right now. I'm going home.

She turned and stomped off, cutting through the dance floor for werewolves and vampires and guys in banana suits. It gritted my teeth again and spun on the stool to face the counter. Seriously? This was not how my night was supposed to go. I threw my wallet down on the bar and waited for the bartender to notice me as I mumbled swear to my shelf.

The bartender, surprisingly, hadn't cut me off. Now I wish she had. I was headed back to the parking lot behind the bar, bracing myself against the beach. building's brick exterior with each tentative step. I took a moment to glance at my phone. It was 2 a.m. No missed calls, no text messages. I decided it would be best if I just crashed in the backseat of my car for the night. It was about as comfortable as the couch and there was no way in hell I could drive myself home. The alleyway leading to the parking lot was decorated from top to bottom with graffiti that had an eerie glow in the dim orange streetlight.

The shadows cast by the light danced to the music that was still pounding in my ears. All of the scantily clad women and strange monsters on the walls watched me stumble down the alley, doing nothing to help me. When I heard another set of footsteps echoing my own, I knew who they belonged to immediately. I didn't turn around. I didn't need to. By some miracle, I had made it to the car. I fumbled around in my pockets, searching for my keys.

The footsteps were growing louder, closer. I couldn't find the keys. I must have left them with Jane when we got to the bar. I tugged on the handle of the door anyway, and to my surprise, it opened. The person walking down the alley called out to me. I couldn't hear what they were saying. My breathing was heavy, and my ears were filled. filled with an awful ringing.

The footsteps drew closer. They stooped, or rather, fell over and reached under the driver's seat. The steps were nearly behind me now, echoing through the alleyway. My hand found what it was looking for. Someone put their hand on my shoulder. I had to save myself. I stood up and whirled around with a cry. The three-inch knife I grabbed from under the seat found its mark,

plunging into the guy's neck. He grasped my wrist and at my face gurgling and gasping for air. I still couldn't see his eyes. That pig, stupid, fucking smile was all I could see. But the person underneath wasn't smiling now. I was. Blood drizzled down the front of his costume, eating a trail of crimson down the once paint fabric.

I shoved him, and he fell against the car the next space over, slumping to the ground. My heart was pounding again. And I realized that I was laughing. I knelt down. Funny now, huh? He raised a hand and I saw something shimmer in his grasp. It was a set of keys.

The bleeding man pressed the red button on the key ring. Into my shock, my car alarm began to go off. Each honk from the car exploded in my head like church bells. The man had pulled the knife out of his throat and was pulling blood on the... the dirty alleyway ground. I fell over into a sitting position. My head spun, my stomach lurched. The other bargoers were already on the way over to investigate the commotion.

The stuck pig reached up again and gave me a few weak taps on my shoulder. Between the car horn and the alarm's wail, I heard him wheeze out a few final words. Wanted... George, you dropped... Keys! When trick or treating, it's important to stay safe in your neighborhood. There are plenty of dangers out there, and parents especially need to watch their children closely.

Just ask the writer of this tale, J.P. Carver. You see, his tale informs us that there are other ways in which bad things can happen on this night of lost soul. lost souls. Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Mike Delgadoio, Nicole Goodnight, and Erica Sanderson. So take care. There are dangers on the eve. When you're a kid, Halloween is a fun, if sometimes scary night, that gives you free candy and usually good memories. When you're an adult with kids, Halloween is swollen feet and a test of patience. But sometimes it's filled with unrelenting fear for those kids. We've all heard the stories of the poison candy or the razor blades embedded in

apples. Even other people make us afraid with teens wearing masks and playing pranks on kids and their parents. For a few moments, I thought that was what happened to me. If only. My husband and I were We're taking our kids out trick-or-treating just after dark, even though it looked like it would rain. I, of course, was prepared for that. I had the kids rain jackets and two umbrellas in a backpack under my cloak. I went as a witch because I'm lazy and hate doing anything that involves lots of time and makeup. Our two kids, Aaron and Bree, were both dressed up in store-bought costumes. Bree was the oldest at six and went dressed in an Iron Man costume, but we called

her iron woman because she couldn't be talked out of it. And to be honest, I didn't mind and my husband thought it was awesome. At four, Aaron went as a ninja, minus the plastic sword because he wouldn't stop trying to attack Bree. So, as a group, we set off down the driveway, and out into the lovely world of ringing doorbells for candy, and being surrounded by hundreds of screaming little kids. My husband took point with Bree. I took up the back to make sure Aaron didn't decide to wander or ninja attack any of the other kids. We hit house after house, taking turns on who took the kids up to the door.

By eight we'd gone to all the houses on our street and were a few streets over into the bigger houses in the development. Most were dark, but the ones that had their porch light on gave out full candy bars. You'd never grow out of getting the best candy you can. We stopped to rest on the curb, Aaron on my lap and Bree resting against my husband. Think that's enough for tonight? He looked over. Yep, looks like, what do you think, Bree?

She shook her head so hard that the plastic Iron Man mask shook off and landed on the road. What about you, Aaron? Are you up for a few more houses? He shook his head lazily. The fabric mask pulled down to his chin. His face was rosy in the chest. chilled air and his eyes drooped. Out here, we can't give up now. We're superheroes. We can't be tired.

Bree reached over and shook his leg. Aaron shook his head and hugged against me. He'd hurt. I sighed and looked over to my husband. Want to draw straws, babe? He laughed. Sure, but I don't think you want to be the one to carry Aaron home. I looked down and saw what he meant.

Aaron was already out, snoring away. He wouldn't be up for walking home. Resigning my aching feet to a few more houses, I gently peeled Aaron away and got him standing. We'll go to the cul-de-sac and then head home. Sound good, Bree? She picked up her mask and put it back on. My husband went over to Aaron and got the sleepy little boy to climb onto his back.

He then gave me a kiss on the cheek. Okay. You got your phone still, right? In the backpack, figure another 30 minutes and we'll start heading home. I glanced to the end of the street. Sounds good. He bent down to Bree and kissed the top of her head. She nodded and started to stroll around us, her knees hitting her bag of candy.

My husband began to leave. Hey, don't you dare start sorting candy before I get home. He feigned hurt. I would never do something. such a thing. You totally would. I know your addiction to Milky Ways. This isn't going to end like last year where me and the kids didn't get any. Don't worry. I'll wait. But if Aaron offers me one, I don't think I'm strong enough to say no. He waved and I just shook my head. Bree and I started off on our continued adventure. Three houses down and with Bree's bag becoming

too heavy for her to carry, the sky decided it would be a good time. to open up on us and start a downpour. Bree hid beneath my cloak as I took off the backpack and got her jacket and an umbrella. Once she had her coat on, I looked around at the emptiness the rain caused. Gone were the kids running along the street. They were now hiding beneath eaves and porch roofs

to get out of the rain. A few were making a break for it, cutting three yards to head home. Seemed to be I was the only one who came prepared. I smiled down to the way. at Bree who was glaring up at the sky. And gets time we head home. One more house, please?

Oh, the lights are going out, Bree. She pointed toward the cul-de-sac, where one orange light shined through the rain and trees. The cul-de-sac was one of the few undeveloped portions of the development, and was mostly trees. There were only two houses, and they'd been built long before the rest of the land was bulldozed. and built on. Most people steered clear of them. Before I could stop, Bree, she had taken off at a run,

her shoes splashing through puddles on pavement and grass. I ran after her, getting soaked because you can't really run with an umbrella. Bree, stop this instant. She was already up the driveway and heading down the front walk of an old White House. Its German siding had lost all paint, and the windows had multiple cracked pains. It was the kind of place you saw in horror movies. I felt a sickness spilled in my stomach as the door opened just before I got to the walk. Oh, aren't you the cutest? I rushed up the walk to be greeted with a kind smile and piercing blue eyes looking at me over half-moon glasses. Here's mom, I think. So glad you decided to visit me. Not many. Not many. You're my. I think. Not Benny make the hike out, and in the rain, too.

Yes, well, my daughter wanted to go to everyone's houses tonight. She's hard to say no to. I can't say I am unhappy with that. We get so few kids that we always have so much candy left over. Take a handful, dear. She bent down with a groan and picked up a bag of fun-sized candy. She opened it and held it out to Bree. Bree grinned as she did so and stuffed it into her already overfilled bag.

You want any? I shook my head. That's fine. We all glanced up as a thumping noise came from the top of the house. What was that? I was hoping you'd tell us. Tree branch, maybe? I stepped off into the front yard.

Oh, that's probably it. You should get along home before the storm gets much worse. The door closed, followed by the sounds of a chain and deadbolt. I looked at the roof but didn't see any branches. Deciding it wasn't worth thinking about, I took Bree's hand and headed down the driveway. Halfway down I heard another sound behind us. I looked back, just in time to see something leave from the eve on the side of the house and into the woods. I felt a jolt of fear but swallowed it back down.

Probably just a raccoon, I told myself. Once on the cul-de-sac, I noticed that it was strangely dark. The storm had moved in completely and blanketed the world in shadow. No houses had their lights on, save the odd flickering of a pumpkin in the windows. But even that light seemed to add to the unease that filled me. Bree's hand tightened around mine, All inside, sweetie.

We should be heading home. I started to walk. Bree froze and actually pulled me back a step. What is it? She pointed toward one of the houses closest to us. I looked up and felt my blood turned through ice and my veins. Standing on the edge of the roof and staring down at us, where's a silhouette with a white face.

The silhouette was hard to separate. from the darkness, but it was tall and thin. I turned my gaze toward the other rooftops, and to my horror found four more, all on top of houses and near the edge of the roof. I pulled Bree toward me, picked her up and ran. A part of me said it was a joke, just a bunch of kids being creepy on the roof, but another part, louder and more frantic said I needed to get Bree and I out of there. I made it to a side-street. The lots on either side were full of autumn-colored trees. As we went, I slipped on a patch of wet leaves and hit the ground.

Bree landed on top of me, knocking the air from my lungs. I laid there for a moment, struggling to breathe. I sat up coughing and looked about for Bree. She stood feet away, surrounded by the silhouettes. I could see them plainly in the reflective light of a street lamp. They stood five or so feet tall with spindle-like arms and legs. Their faces were like masks. Pale white with the slightest of features.

Their expressions never changed, but their body languages did. They moved like a pack of dogs that had found something interesting. Brie screamed for me and I scrambled to my feet. By the time I stood, one of them had her, and the other four followed them into the trees. I ran after them into the darkness, screaming at the top of my lungs for them to give her back. I pushed through the brush and cut myself on branches and sticker bushes, not noticing the pain. Somehow I lost them in that tiny patch of trees and came out the other side, pacing up to the cul-de-sac.

I searched those trees twice more until finally breaking down. My heart thudded in my chest. Breathing became hard, and I nearly threw up as I dug my cell phone out of my bag. How could I explain this? How in God's name could I explain this to my husband? I felt like something had snapped in my head, but it had to be a delusion, and at any moment I'd wake up on the ground with free standing over me. My phone had no bars.

I cursed and roamed around the front yard of a dark house, trying to find a signal and coming up empty. Shaking, I ran off to the house and pounded on the door. No one answered. I tried the next house in the house after that, nothing. No one would fucking answer. The only house left was the house on the cul-de-sac. The orange glow of the porch lied almost welcoming and scary at the same time.

I rushed up the driveway and slammed myself against the door. I heard something fall and break on the other side. My fists hurt from hitting so many doors. My cuts were starting to sting in the rain. I felt half dead. Please open up. They took my daughter. I dropped to my knees sobbing.

Then I heard the deadbolt to click where the door opened as much as the chain would allow. I'm sorry. I sat up and pushed against the door. Please, I need to call the police. I have to find her. I can't help you. Why not?

Because I want my grandson back. They took him and he's supposed to be back tonight. I'm sorry, but be strong. What are you talking about? I slammed my hands against the door. Please give me a phone, let me call the police. I can't. She shut the door against my hands.

I screamed as I hit the door over and over. She never answered again. I didn't want to leave, but I had to get help. I went back down to the cul-de-sac and started to run home. Just before I reached the point where I fell, car lights found me. The light was so bright that I couldn't see who it was, but I didn't care and ran to it, smacking my hands on the driver's side window.

It was my husband. Where the hell have you been? I've been worried sick about you. You said 30 minutes. It's been almost an hour and a half. He got out and pulled me into a hug. That can't be right. I started to shiver uncontrollably.

Honey, what's wrong? Where's Bree? I told him through sobs about what happened. I didn't describe the things I saw because I knew he wouldn't believe me. I told him that people in masks chased us, that I fell and they took her. He called the cops on his cell and we spent the rest of the night with them searching. We never found her. We never found anything.

Not a trace of her. Or the things that took her. The police talked to the old woman on the cul-de-sac, and she told them she never saw us after we got candy from her. I screamed at her from the bottom of her driveway, two police officers and my husband holding me back. A few weeks later, snow had fallen, and I was looking out the kitchen window,

trying to keep myself from breaking down into tears again. Our yard butted up against a hill covered in trees. I would spend hours searching out the tree line, hoping that Bree would come. come walking out unharmed. I thought I would never see her again. My marriage was falling apart. I didn't sleep, barely ate,

and contemplated suicide on more than one occasion. The phone rang, my doctor. I had missed another appointment. I went to answer, but something knocked against the back door. I took off running, forgetting my code and boots. I opened the door and stood stunned in the chilled air. On the stoop sat an Ironman mask. But instead of the golden red, this one had been painted completely white.

My hands were shaking as I reached down to pick it up. I screamed for Bree, and then I noticed the footprints in the snow, a pair of large feet with long strides, and a pair of little feet in short strides. I hopped our fence and entered into the woods Here the trail became harder to follow but I kept going I saw her She walked with one of the silhouettes

But this time it was white instead of black I wanted to call for her But if they took off running I was too far away to stop them I moved as quickly but as quietly as I could When I was only a few feet away I found a rock She was talking to whatever the thing was. The creature made a clicking sound. I like it, but it'll be back, right?

It nodded its white face. I raised the rock, but before I could throw it, the two of them disappeared into the landscape. Or shimmer or fade. Just gone. I had lost her again. She was wrong. right there and I didn't save her.

I'm at home a year later and it's Halloween. Aaron is with my husband. We're separated. He has him today. For most of the night I had no trick-or-treaters, something that is very strange considering I'm in the middle of the development. Then, a little before nine, a man and his daughter showed up. They knocked on the door,

said trick or treat. I gave them candy, and then we heard it. Something thumped on the roof of the house. I just stared at them as the man looked toward the roof. What was that? A tree branch? I swallowed hard. I'm sure that was it. They left.

He's now pounding on my door, leading with me to give him a phone. All I can think about is when my little girl will be back. Most children have very fond memories of Halloween, don't they? Well, offering us a contrary position is author C.K. Walker. Her tale is about an elderly man visiting a childhood friend and recalling one Halloween which had a lasting impact on both of them. Jessica McAvoy and El Hamer lend their voices to this tale about scars,

which remain long after the... I know I should come see you more often, but I never remember the visiting hours of this place. It's no excuse, I know. I guess if I was honest, I'd admit that this place depresses me. I'm sorry, that's a rude thing to say. Well, anyway, my year was great. My son had his second child, my fourth granddaughter.

Her name is Emma. I've been pretty lonely since Lily left me, so I got a dog in May. I named him BJ after you, Brian. He likes to go with me on walks around the lake. Let's see. What else? My daughter got me cable,

and I spent a good, solid five days watching TV. You wouldn't believe what kind of shows they have now. I think a whole new genre is invented every year. It's a wonder I leave the house, but I do leave because, well, I have some news. I met a woman over the summer. Her name is Holly. I asked her to marry me last month, and wouldn't you know it, she said yes. I know what you're going to say. That's too fast, but I think I love her, and at my age there's no time to waste.

She's the reason I wanted to see you this year. It was only a matter of time before she asked about the burns. And shortly after I proposed to her, she did. I never told Lily the truth, but I think I'm going to give honesty a try this go-around. But before I tell her what really happened all those years ago, I think I owe it to you to tell you the truth of the incident first. After all, you were there. I don't know how much you remember, so I'll start. at the beginning. Do you remember how we met? My mother, a scandalous single woman in the 50s,

was living with her mother in Chris River when I was born. That's where I met you, remember? You were trying to catch fish with a stick and one of your mother's earrings. I helped you dig for worms. We never caught anything, but we quickly became the best of friends. We were together every day, summer or school, Adam and Brian, always up to mischief. Our parents became friends. I loved living out in Chris River. All that farmland, all the wildlife. And my mother met Richard, and we moved far away to the city.

I guess, looking back, it wasn't that far, but as a kid, I remember feeling like it was the other side of the planet. I missed you a lot at first, but I soon made friends, and I'm sorry to admit this, Brian. But I started to forget about you a little bit. bit. Things were getting better for me until my mother sat me down one day to tell me about your illness. Oh, I did pity you, Brian. When she offered to take me trick-or-treating and Chris River a few days later for Halloween, I jumped at the chance, Brian and Adam together again. She tried to warn me about your condition, but it didn't prepare me to see you like that. You were asleep when I walked into your room, and when I tried to wake you, your mother stopped me.

I remember being shocked when they told me you weren't allowed to trick-or-treat. I was so angry because no one told me I would be going. alone. I had worked so hard on my vampire costume and now you wouldn't get to see it. And then my mother told me she wasn't going to drive me to the suburbs. I would be stuck going farmhouse to farmhouse, collecting small handfuls of candy every other mile. As I left, I promised you that I would give you half my candy, I would trick or treat harder than I'd ever trick or treated before. My mother gave me a pillowcase and told me to be back by 8 p.m. She then released me into the wild as the sun sunk into the horizon. Mom stayed in Nana's kitchen to chat and they both waved at me out the window as I

set off down the dirt driveway. First, I went to the MacArthur's, the Jackson's, and the Wittins. Those three houses took me over an hour, and in the end I was frustrated to look in my bag and see that all I had to show for it was about a handful of Tutsy rolls and dumb-dums. Not enough to share, not at our age. I then went to the Nanfels and the McBrides. I started towards the Tilfords, but I saw their porch light was off, so I turned around before I'd gotten too far down their road.

I checked my Bugs Bunny watch and bit back tears when I saw I only had enough time for one more house. I looked down into my pillowcase to take inventory. again and said my first real swear word ever. Still not enough to share. I knew this next decision was crucial. After thinking about it for a few precious minutes, I decided that my last house would be the youngs. I remembered that they were fairly well off and had a new baby, so they were sure to be home man giving out candy. I walked down Wattach Road for half a mile until I saw their giant White House. I could see decorations in their yard and the porch lights blaring brightly to welcome hungry

trick-or-treaters. I knew I'd made the right decision. I covered the rest of the half-mile in record time, passing by only one other trick-or-treating family on the way, their bags heavy and their mouths smeared with chocolate. I hope they'd found their fortunes at the young house. I ran the rest of the way and took the porch steps two at a time. I rang the doorbell and hopped from foot to foot, hardly containing my excitement. I heard footsteps inside.

and waited for the door to open. Ten seconds, fifteen seconds, twenty, but no one opened the door. I rung the bell again, and this time saw someone peek out from the living room at me. I waved at them and smiled because this time I knew they had seen me. Another 30 seconds went by, and my smile,

began to falter. I knocked on the door, but heard and saw nothing more from within the house. And then the porch lights went out. I remember standing in shock for several long minutes. Had they given the rest of their candy to the family I'd passed on Wadich? Did they truly have nothing left for me? I was crue. restfallen. I didn't have time to go to another house. You're not supposed to have your porch lights on if you're not given out candy. Everybody knows that. I became irrational and angry, and in my frenzied state, I did something that has haunted me these last 60 years. This was the incident. picked up one of the young's jack-o-lanterns, and I flung it as far as I could into their cornfield. With my weak little eight-year-old arms, it didn't get very far,

and I saw it smash into the ground, a mess of orange pulp and seeds, as the tea light rolled out onto the densely covered floor of dry corn husks and leaves. Oh, it all went wrong so fast. I ran into the corn and tried to put the small fire out with McCabe. I succeeded but burned my wrist badly. Then suddenly the dying embers ignited a nearby pile of dried leaves

and began to creep up the corn stalks. I'm ashamed to say I panicked. And I ran. I remember grabbing my candy off the porch as I ran. I fled from the young house, nursing my raw red wrist, and crying from the stinging pain of the burn. I looked back several times to see if there was smoke, but it was difficult to tell in the quickly darkening night sky.

And the further away I got, the better I got, the better I was. became convincing myself I overreacted. The fire had been so small. Surely Mr. Young had already noticed and extinguished it. If it still burned, I would hear fire trucks, wouldn't I? The air would be warmer, wouldn't it? But the night was quiet and cold. I did not share my candy with you that night.

When I reached Nana's house, I begged my mother to leave. I said I didn't feel good and that I thought I may have caught your illness. She felt my forehead and then kissed my grandmother goodbye as I pulled her out to her old Blue Datson. I cried loudly and theatrically as we drove away, hoping to impress upon my mother how her desperate need to get home. As she sped down State Road and onto the highway, I chanced one look out of the rear window. All along the horizon, just above the trees, the darkness of the night had taken on an almost imperceptible orange hue. I knew what it was, and I was frightened. Just as I began to doubt myself, I thought I saw a single flame lick up into the sky and

disappear as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a sick, sinking feeling in my stomach. I fell back down into my seat and curled into a ball, moaning as hot tears stole down my face. My mother was so worried, she took me straight to the hospital. Richard met us there, and he too became concerned at my panicked, hysterical state. I was shaken and crying uncontrollably, unable to water even one comprehensible word. The doctor was so concerned about my hysteria that he kept me overnight for observation. It was when I awoke in the morning that I first heard about the extent of the blaze. My mother and Richard were sleeping in the uncomfortable chairs by my cold white bed,

and I could hear the nurses speaking right outside my door. It's so awful. We were ready to take on the rescued victims, but there are so few. Yes. Such a shame. What's the number at now? 18 dead, and still quite a few missing. How awful. Just dreadful. And the firemen are still fighting to get control of it.

It's spread out of Chris River. It's been such a dry season. Do they know how it started? I haven't heard. I do know they know where it started. Such a young family. Did all of them perish? Yes. And so many. many more. Oh, stop, Robin. I think I might cry. I buried my head back under the covers and cried to myself. Soon my mother would wake up and she would hear what had happened in Chris River. Was Nana all right?

Were you? Mother would know I had done it. She had seen the burns on my wrist. I know she had. I know she had. I hadn't let the doctor see, but my mother had. At some point I fell asleep again, and I was shaken awake by Richard, who bore a solemn expression. Mother was gone, and he wouldn't tell me where, just shook his head, sadly. He called a doctor to check on me, and she looked me over, then discharged me. way home. Richard told me that there had been a fire in Chris River, and my illness, whatever it had been, may have saved me in my mother's life. He hugged me then. Mother was sitting at the kitchen table when we arrived home. She felt my forehead, spoke quietly with Richard, and then sat me down.

at the table and quietly told me that my grandmother had been taken by a quick spreading lethal wildfire that had consumed Chris River overnight asked about you I think I loved you more than my grandmother I remember waiting for them to come take me away from my mother I was so afraid of jail, but no one ever came. Adults whispered that a teenager in a witch costume was to blame for the fire. A witness had seen someone running from the young's house at around 8 o'clock, but I wasn't a witch. I was a vampire without a cape. I can guess they never found the witch.

My mother stopped mentioning my grandmother around me, and my wrist healed poorly. I never forgave myself, though I did try to forget about the Chris River fire and my heart. So you see, Brian, it was me that killed 22 people that night. Oh, it feels good to tell you after so many years. Thank you for being patient. Six decades is a long time to wait for the truth. Mother has been dead for 15 years, as you know. She took my secret to her grave.

I've also brought this for here. the candy I promised you that night in 1963. These skittles will have to do, as I have long since lost the candy from that Halloween. Sorry you can't eat them, but I hope you will accept the gesture. I've also, of course, brought you this jack-a-lantern, as I have done every year I've visited.

I hope you don't find it in poor taste now, but, well, it's our tradition, and I couldn't bring myself to break it. I couldn't find a battery-operated tea light this year, so I'm lighting a real candle. I would be wary of all this grass, but luckily it rained this morning. morning, and it won't burn for long.

Damn it, Brian. I wish things had been different. I wish you hadn't had the chicken pox that Halloween. I wish I hadn't gone to the young house. I wish I got to see you every year on your birthday instead of the anniversary of your death. I'm sorry. I have to go now. I'm going to a candlelight vigil with Holly and Chris River for the victims of the fire. Her father died fighting it, sadly.

I go almost every year after I visit you. I hope that you can forgive me someday. Now that I've told you that. The truth, I... Oh, I probably won't visit anymore. I'm so sorry, Brian. I loved you like a brother. I hope to see you again someday, if you'll have me.

And wherever you are, Brian, happy Halloween. ...and just for the young ones to roam the streets looking for candy. No, sometimes the older kids can want their fun too. Consider what author Grant Riley has written for us. A tale of high school boys whose love of Halloween betrays their age, but not their desire to avoid the danger of the local urban legend of an old isolated man who seeks to feast on any and all who call at his house on all Hallows Eve.

We have a gang of sturdy men performing this tale, including Mike Delgadoo, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Peter Lewis. So go ahead and listen. Don't be afraid. You have to listen. I dare you. I was the new kid in town, and looking back, I guess that's why.

I went along with it. Moving during your senior year of high school is hard enough. I was just trying to make friends and get along and not be an outcast like my old school. Mom kept telling me this was a way to make a fresh start, and I was giving it a shot. I first met the guys. Daryl Shannon, Mike O'Bannon, and Larry Lloyd during my second week of school when in an attempt to fit in, I decided to try out for the football team. I hadn't really been into sports in my last school. But I thought I'd give it a shot here. In small town, sports were the gateway to popularity and a way of life. I still remember walking onto the field and hearing the voice call out to my left.

Yo, new kid! I turned and saw the three guys standing a few yards away from me. They were all big, muscular, jock-type guys. No bread for football? The only difference in them was their hair. Darrow had close cropped hair. Mike had shaggy brown hair and Larry had curly blonde hair. Yeah?

Come here! Darrow waved me over to their group. I was a little afraid at first. I thought for sure they were calling me over to play some embarrassing prank or, you know, hurt me somehow. That's how Jocks worked at my last school. Pesidently, I took a few steps toward them. Yeah? What's your name?

Danny? Mike's arm flew out. I cringed awaiting the blow, but none came. It wasn't as fist he was throwing at me, but a football. I caught it and stood there, not knowing what to do. Come on. We're going to toss the ball around. Need a fourth.

He and Daryl jogged down the field, leaving me and Larry standing where we were. Daryl turned and slapped his hands together, so I threw the ball to him. Not being well-versed in any sort of sport, the ball wobbled horribly in the air and barely even made it to Daryl. I steled myself, waiting for the berating taunts and jeers at how much I sucked. I was shocked when that didn't happen. Dary caught the ball and threw it to Larry, and Larry threw it to Mike, and Mike threw it back to me. On and on it went. Each time my throw was horrible, but no one ever made fun. So how you liking it here?

Larry asked after a little while. You know, so far, so good. I cost the ball to Mike. It's a nice place to live. Probably a lot different than the city, huh? He threw the ball back. Yeah, it is. It's good, though.

Just wait till Halloween. Halloween? What do you mean? I didn't quite understand that comment. It seemed kind of weird and off the subject. It's kind of a big deal here. It was pretty big back home. Oh, you ain't seen nothing yet.

Nothing more was said about Halloween after that. Larry talked some more about nothing in particular, and soon actual practice started. It went pretty good. I made the team and formed a pretty good friendship with the guys. That was a few months ago. Soon October rolled around, and Larry's words echoed through my mind. Just wait till Halloween. Oh, he wasn't kidding.

As soon as October first hit, there were pumpkins on doorsteps, ghosts hanging from trees, tombstones popping up in people's yards, and witches fill in the skies on their brooms. Halloween was bigger than Christmas around here. It was fun and sort of nostalgic to see the town go all out like this. But the real kicker came when Darrell asked what I was going to dress up as. dress up for what darrell looked at me like i was an idiot what do you mean for what halloween trick-or-treating it was my turn to look at him like he was an idiot dude we're in high school we don't trick-or-treat anymore what are you talking about everyone trick-or-treats larry and mike laughed by their shocked expressions you'd think I just told him I didn't know who our president was.

I figured they were just trying to trick me into getting into a costume and making a fool of myself. But the next week, the guys showed me their costumes. They were going to be zombie football players with dirt smeared leather and jackets and their faces painted, you know, deathly blue with cuts and bruises marring their faces. I couldn't believe kids in high school would actually still dress up and trick-or-treat,

but it seemed that everyone was doing it. For weeks, the talk in the school hallways was about costume choices and who had the best candy in town. I decided to go with the flow and have some fun. My costume of choice was Jason, you know, from the Friday the 13th movies. It was while we were shopping for bits and pieces for my costume that the story of Jasper Jenkins emerged. So for a town obsessed with Halloween, there's got to be plenty of local legends, right? I picked out the best hockey mask from Yogo Sports. Oh man, there's tons of legends.

Tons. Lennford Falls has its monsters. Yeah? Any of them true? Mike shrugged. Until proven otherwise, they all are. Oh, yeah? What are some of them? There's the lady in white, the werewolf out at Silver Creek.

The Hulkman? Witches. Vampires. Cannibal monsters. The axe murderer? I put my hands up to stop them. I get it, I get it. Sounds like pretty much all the urban legends rolled into one.

Have you guys actually seen any of these things? Check them out for yourselves? I grabbed the perfect mask off the peg hook and started for the counter. I didn't notice that the guys weren't walking with me. I turned and they hadn't moved from where they were. They just stood with a sort of confused look on their faces. Not really, no. Daryl stopped and exchanged glances with the other two guys.

They were clearly debating whether or not to let me in on whatever secret they held between themselves. Well, there is one that we kind of checked out. Larry and Mike exchanged a worried, knowing look. Their bodies got tense and I could see the terror in their eyes. What's that? I was a little afraid to hear the answer after seeing the guy's reaction to the mention of it. Daryl's voice was barely more than a whisper. It sounded made up.

Who's that? He's an old man that lives out there on Yukon Drive. I'd learned early on that Yukon Drive was a road on the outskirts of town considered to be the wrong side of the tracks. What's so scary about an old man? The fact that he kidnaps and tortures kids. and eat them. Right, right.

If looks could kill, I would have been dead three times over at that moment. It's true. We saw it ourselves a few years ago. He took a deep, steadying breath before continuing. It was Halloween. And we were trick-or-treating with some people. One of them was Randy Harvey.

We'd been all around town, but wanted more candy, so we went over to Yukon Drive. When we passed Jasper Jenkins' house, some of the kids with us stopped. They started daring Randy to knock on Jasper's door. The kid was terrified, but he did it. We all stayed on the sidewalk as he walked up to the porch. He knocked on the door.

I can still remember the sound of it creaking open. Larry and Mike shuddered. They evidently remembered it too. Randy was shaking. We could see him from him. the road, but he still said trick-or-treat. Before we knew what was happening, Randy was dragged into the house, and the door was slammed shut behind him. We all ran. We ran for our lives. That was the last time most people saw Randy. Most people? So people have seen him since?

It was a statement more than a question. I couldn't show these guys I was given in to anything they were saying. It was absolutely ridiculous. I stopped believing in these kinds of stories when I was nine. Darrell Larry and Mike exchanged another glance. We saw him. We'd gotten a few blocks before we stopped and decided to turn around. Everyone else kept running, but the three of us couldn't just run away from Randy. We went back to the house and crept up to a window. He fell silent. I let the silence hang for a moment before I pressed on. And? That's when we saw him.

Larry's face was a sickly pale white. All of the guy's faces were. I had to admit these guys were good actors. If I were a gullible person, I might have believed him. We were looking into the kitchen. Jenkins was hacking up a slab of meat with a meat. Cleaver. It was fresh.

Maybe he liked to make his own steaks. No, this wasn't steak. It was Randy. How do you know? His mask. His mask was laying on the kitchen table. A big, bloody gash was sliced into the forehead of it. Mike ran his finger from his hair line down to his eyebrow, indicating where the gash had been.

I nodded, keeping my face straight. I see. The only thing that kept me from laughing was the serious look in their faces. I didn't say anymore. I just paid for my hockey mask and we left the store. Halloween came around and I met up with the guys at Daryl's house. They were already in their costumes, bloody scars and all. So I went into the bathroom and changed into mine.

Then we set out for something I thought I would never do again in my life. Trick or treating. As we ran around town, I noticed plenty of other high schoolers out too. The whole thing seemed surreal and childish. If my old friends had seen me out there, I would have been teased and tormented for the rest of my life. But I just laid back and enjoyed the ride and the candy. It was starting to get late, and most of the younger trick-or-treaters had returned to their homes to enjoy their stash. The guys and I, though, he still drifted the streets.

Is there anywhere else we haven't been? Mike's bag was loaded, but he looked at it like it was empty. Not that I can think of. I think we've been everywhere. He suddenly stopped and his eyes lit up with an idea. Well, there is one place. Mike and Larry looked at him curiously. Daryl turned to me.

Jasper Jenkins. I could tell he was trying to scare me. I wasn't going to let him. Let's go, I said with a defiant, non-committal shrug. Hey, uh, I don't think that's such a great idea. Yeah, me neither. Come on, guys, why not? A couple of big jocks like you aren't scared of some old man, are you?

You're not serious, are you? Larry acted like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. I ignored him. Lead the way. Darrell turned west and we started walking. Larry and Mike fell in beside us after a moment's hesitation. Half an hour later we stood before the house of Jasper Jenkins. I could tell why kids would be afraid of the place.

The yard looked like it hadn't been mowed in years. Weeds and gnarled trees dominated the landscape. Even in the dark, I could tell all but a few patches of paint had chipped off the two-story house. Shudders hung limply from their hinges, windows were broken, the roof was collapsing. I wouldn't even believe someone lived there had it not been for the light emanating from a downstairs window. Darrell pointed to the lit window.

Well, aren't you going? Daryl turned to me with wide eyes. Was you kidding? I'm not going up there. Why did you want to come here then? I came here for you to go up there. I turned to the dark house. Seeing the decrepit structure, my courage from earlier was. waning.

Me? Yeah. You were the one asking about local legends and you didn't believe us about Jenkins. If you don't believe in it, you should have no problem going up there. He had a point there. The guys were just trying to scare me after all. Without looking back or saying another word to them, I turned and walked up the dark driveway leading to the front door. I know it sounds strange, but I swear the temperature in the air dropped almost 10 degrees or

so as I passed the threshold onto Jasper Jenkins's property. Still, I pressed on, my footfalls issuing a hollow echo as I marched to the door. The boards under my feet creaked dangerously as I stepped onto the porch. I stood before the doorbell and drew in a deep breath, released it, and pressed the button. Inside the house, an uncharacteristically merry chime, ding-donged throughout the rooms. Seconds, it felt like hours passed before the doorknob slowly turned. My brain screamed for me to turn and run, but I stood my ground.

The door swung open and an old withered man stood before me. His body was thin and frail. His back hunched. His fingers twig thin and fragile. The few hairs on his liver spotted head were shock white. I was washed over with more pity than feet. Here. Trick or treat? I held out my Walmart bag for candy.

His already wrinkled brow wrinkled even more as he looked for me to the bag in my hands, then back to me. Trick or treat? His voice was like scraping metal. After a moment's hesitation, the old man's eyes lit up knowingly. Oh, trick or treat. Of course. of course. He took a step back and held the door open with his right hand while waving me in with his left.

Come in, come in, come in. I'll find a treat for you. I glanced over my shoulder back at the guys. The ridiculous look of fear at this decrepit old man is what pushed me to step into the house. That should finally show him that I hadn't fallen for the trick. I'm not used to visitors, especially on Halloween. Oh yeah? The inside of the house wasn't any better than the outside. Through the door, I'd stepped into the living room,

which was furnished only with a tattered rug, a broken armchair, and a stained couch that had to have dated back to the 20s. My sinuses were instantly attacked by decades of dust and mold floating in the air. How could anyone live like this? He extended a bony hand to the chair. Please, sit. I sat. The old man chuckled.

Like I said, I'm not much use to visitors. I'm afraid I don't have any candy ready. But you, you just sit tight. I'll try to rummage up something from the kitchen. I couldn't tell if the creaking sound was from the floor or the old man's joints as he shuffled through the kitchen door. I sat in silence gazing about the house. The more I sat, the more I could see that this could be a really nice place.

It would just need a lot of work. That's when something caught my eye, something out of place. The crumbling fireplace mantle was lined with pictures. While that may not sound weird, it was weird that there was not a speck of dust on the frames. I stood up and walked over to look at them, picking them up and leaning them towards the failing light from the lamp. The pictures were old,

and I could tell the man in them was a younger version of Jasper Jenkins, along with what I took to be a wife and kids. I sorrowfully wondered to myself what had become of them. With the stories and my present surroundings, I hadn't even thought about Jasper having a family that, according to the pictures, he had loved at some point in his long life. A tumbling, bumping noise from the kitchen drew my attention to the door behind me. Mr. Jenkins? I was afraid that the old man had had a heart attack or a broken hip or something. And there's no answer, I put the picture back on the mantle and approached the kitchen door.

Mr. Jenkins. Still, no answer. I pushed the door open. It swung inward to the kitchen and caught something on the floor that scraped around the hardwood. I looked down and froze. The object was a butcher knife, caked in a reddish black liquid. I bent and picked it up to examine it more closely. As much as I tried to tell myself otherwise, it sure looked like blood.

fresh blood. Mr. Jenkins wasn't in the small kitchen. The only other place he could have been was the pantry to my right. I looked along the wall, the butcher knife in hand for protection. With a shaky hand, I pressed the door open. My stomach threatened to explode as my knees turned to jelly. Never in my worst nightmares had I seen anything remotely close to the horror before me now. I would have welcomed the comforting darkness of unconsciousness or even the blissful ignorance of insanity, but I would have none of it. The door opened to a small pantry lined with cans and jars of food, but my eyes were drawn to the floor. Jasper Jenkins was lying on the floor in a pool of blood.

His chest had been torn open, most likely by the very knife I now held in my hands. His eyes and mouth were frozen, open in a moment of shock and fear. As bad as the sight of Jasper's body was, that wasn't what threatened to drive me over the brink of sanity. Daryl, Mike, and Larry peered up at me when I opened the door. Their mouths smeared with blood and entrails. In their hands were pieces of the old man's flesh that had been ripped. ripped from his body. Hey, Danny.

Boom. Daryl looked at me and smiled. There was skin and bits of hair stuck between his teeth. Maniacal laughter burst from the guy's bloody mouths. I could only stammer. I couldn't comprehend what was going on in front of me. Lighten up, Danny. Larry bit off a piece of the flesh.

held. Yeah, we're just having a snack. I backed away on numb legs. Daryl stood up and started to approach me. Oh, we have to thank you, Danny. Thank you for taking the wrap for this. What? Your fingerprints are all over the place now. The picture is the murder weapon. And there's even a bit of your shirt on the window we broke to get in here. He pulled a wad of cloth from inside his letterman's jacket that I recognized as a shirt of mine. I stared at him, dumbfounded. Sorry, man, but we couldn't risk being found out. We got close last year with Randy, but we use this guy as our cover.

He looked back at Jasper's corpse that Larry and Mike were ravaging. Hey, save me some. Sorry. Sorry. Daryl turned back to me. Now then, I know you're probably thinking of running off and turning us in, but I'd have to advise against that. See, we're good at what we do, Danny.

The police would find absolutely nothing tying us to this, so it's pointless to even try. We don't leave fingerprints, and we know how to wash the evidence off of us. You should feel lucky, actually. If we hadn't liked you so much, this would be you. He raised one of Mr. Jenkins' fingers in the air, and then popped it in his mouth like a french fry.

I could hear the bones crunch between his teeth. Feeling was starting to come back to my body and, with it, rational thought. I had to get out of here. I had to get to the police. They said it would do no good, but I couldn't let these guys get away with it. I turned and ran. Danny, we tried to tell you, Glenford Falls had it's monsters.

Monsters! Monsters! The words echoed in my head as my feet pounded on the pavement. Even as I ran to the police, I knew in my heart that what Daryl said was true. They wouldn't be caught. I would be blamed. My calm, collected, sane world

had instantly dissolved into a ravaging nightmare. Halloween is a time to both write and tell scary stories, isn't it? It's rather what we do here. And so when Jimmy Giuliano penned a tale about a teacher and his efforts to get his students to write creed, creatively, we couldn't resist it, and no doubt neither will you. This is a tale within a tale within a tale. And it's performed by a whole gaggle of people, including David Holt,

Jeff Clement, Remar Chathadamysenic, Nicole Goodnight, Alexis Bristow, Erica Sanderson, and Peter Lewis. For this tale you'll want to procure a radio and tune its dial to a very special frequency, Kenneth. The frequency is 89.1. Fresh out of college, I moved to the States, took a teaching job in a small town in central Wisconsin. In my sophomore creative writing class, I assigned a flash fiction exercise around Halloween. We'd studied urban legends and folklore, and it was the students' turn to construct stories of their own. Assignment length, 100 to 1,000 words. Directions.

Scare me. The submission quality was, as expected. These were sophomores, after all, but one story stood out halfway through my stack of papers. A piece by a quiet student named Jake. His first-person flash-fiction story seemed so real, like it was dipped in reality, a little too closely, almost like he wasn't making it up, but had been retelling something that happened to him. I put it aside, impressed. Kate's submission was the last paper in the stack. I remember the reading experience vividly, the beads of sweat accumulating around my.

temples, the clickety click of the red pen in my hand, and a weird feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. I placed it on top of Jake's story and I thought, what the hell am I going to do? I still have photocopies of the original stories and I often wonder, why do I still have these? But there is something about them. They are so interconnected and there is something so raw and beautiful about them. I have a strong affinity for interesting student writing, and it'd be ashamed to let the flames of these stories be extinguished. I'll share the student pieces and the subsequent events that transpired right here. I do enjoy a good story, Jake's flash fiction. My parents put Grandma Rosie in a home when she started to lose her grasp on reality, they said.

I still found it cruel, but she seemed content. Content enough, I guess. I remember visiting her. She had an old wooden rocking chair that faced the window. Outside was nothing but flat fields of green. The green would eventually fade, and when it snowed, it was carpets of white for miles and miles. I'm not sure which season Grandma Rosie liked the most. She didn't do a lot of talk.

She mainly listened to a radio and always one station, 89.1. But 89.1 never had a signal. It was always static. Grandma Rosie listened to this static all day, seemingly waiting out her life. No one could reach her. I visited one day to drop off a box of chocolates. Grandma Rosie rocked slowly in her chair with large headphones over her ears, staring out of the window, watching the snowfall. I couldn't tell if she knew I was there.

I walked over and placed the chocolates on a small table, and her hands suddenly reached across and snatched my wrist. Listen! Grandma Rosie leaned in close, and I put my ear to hers. I lifted up the cup of her head. headphone and listened. There was only static. I was about to speak, but she covered my mouth with her hand.

Listen closer. I did, but all I heard was more static. Soon they will come. They will come to take me away. This freaked me out a little, and I went home. I told my mom and dad about what happened, but they didn't think it was. was that weird. I kept thinking about it. One night I couldn't sleep so I buzzed my friend Abby on her walkie-talkies. She lived across the street and somehow she knew all about 89.1. She told me

it was an old legend in our town and you needed two things to explore the legend further. A radio and a closet with a door slightly open. Face away from the closet. Face away from the closet, tune in to 89.1, and listen very closely. At some point through the static, you'll hear the faint sound of an organ. Distant screams and the dragging of metal chains along gravelly surface. The open doorway is an invitation. Keep your eyes closed, and only if you keep your eyes closed, a figure will appear and drag you into the closet. From there, your fate is unknown. I looked out my window and saw Abby in her bedroom. She put her finger up to her lips. For the next few days, I kept thinking about the ritual on

Grandma Rosie. Why would she be playing this game? Why did she want to be dragged into an unknown fate? I again told my parents that I was worried about Grandma Rosie. They were very very very dismissive. Ever since Grandpa died, I think she wants to let go. She wants to be with him. I wanted to know more, so I decided to try the game myself. It was late at night, and I opened my closet door just to crack. I sat on my bed with my back to the closet, tuned my radio to 89.1, and put on my headphones.

I heard the static. and I closed my eyes. I sat there for a long time, focusing very hard on the static. The longer I sat there, the more it felt like my room was shrinking. Kind of like the space was filling up with something else. Like I wasn't alone. In my headphones, I heard the distant organ, and I heard the screams that seemed far away.

But it sounded like they were getting closer. The screeching of the metal began. And then I heard a voice. I jumped from my bed, very startled, was laughing hysterically through the walkie-talkie. I looked around my bedroom. I was alone. I looked out of the window and saw Abby smiling and giggling. She brought the walkie-talkie up to her mouth.

I noticed the closet door. it was wide open. The static of 89.1 hissed from my headphones. Tell me joking. But I wasn't so sure it was a joke. Grandma Rosie died two weeks later in her sleep. Her time had come. And I was done fooling around with legends and superstitions.

Jake's story was the most interesting of the bunch. His writing needed some tightening, sure, but the ideas were there, a mysterious legend, sentimental characterizations, and an ambiguous ending. I truly thought he had invented the whole thing until I read Kate's submission, Kate's flash fiction. Panic, fear, no one would believe me, not ever. I told him I was joking about everything. It helps me sleep at night.

But I know what I saw. A young boy, a ritual, and death. Death itself. A black death with a clutching grip. An entity that surrounds its victim, dragging a companion to its secret and eternal lair. But I was joking. Joking all long, which made it okay.

I had to know. No more. I went into her room. It felt recently vacated, like the plug had just been pulled from a sink. Headphones on the floor? Static. Nothing but static. Noises from the closet.

Labored breathing. Fingernails squeaking on the door from the inside. I clutched the handle. Something. Something else. Something dark. Can't open it. Won't open it.

refuse to let it out I slowly back away a tiny voice squeaking help me static echoing in the small room nothing but static I closed the door on my way out won't let it out

won't tell we'll never tell my story doesn't exist it's simply not there It's nothing but static. Here I had two seemingly intertwined stories. Jake's more traditional folklore story and Kate's personalized flash fiction, focusing on emotion, regret and secrets.

Perhaps I'd been swimming in urban legends too long, or maybe I'd been the victim of too many horrendous student essays and stories to count. But I couldn't shake the notion. This seems real. A few days after Halloween, I kept Kate after school. I wanted to know more, specifically, was she the Abbey character in Jake's story, and was she confessing to visiting the grandmother in her own piece? I pulled out Kate's flash fiction, and I asked about how she wrote it.

What was her inspiration? She shrugged. I guess it's avant-garde. I was just experimenting with ideas. Did you like it? I nodded. It was an interesting piece, I told her. Have you ever heard of 89.1?

I started to speak, but couldn't. A few words sputtered out, but were interrupted by Kate's laughing. After Patrick, the whole thing was just a joke. Kate explained how she and Jake conspired to write multiple viewpoints of the same story. partially as a creative writing exercise, but mainly just to screw with me. The whole thing was made up. It was a Halloween prank. We so got you, Mr. Patrick. I smiled uncomfortably. It was a good one, and yes, they got me.

I told her that I enjoyed her piece. Let's continue developing your avant-garde writing and enjoy your Halloween. But something didn't feel right. I had drinks. with a veteran freshman English instructor, me, the first-year teacher in a new town, and he the wily old mentor. I told him about the assignment and the stories Jake and Kate turned in. He laughed and thought about it a bit more.

Huh, that just seems off. You said Jake and Kate conspired to play a joke. They were thick as thieves in my class at the start of the school year, but in the fall, they stopped talking, wouldn't even look at each other anymore, had some sort of falling out. I guess they made up. For the next few weeks, I watched Jake and Kate closely, in my class and in the hallways.

They didn't speak once, never even looked at each other. I scheduled a story conference with Jake, and I let him know how much I'd enjoyed his growth as a writer, especially his Halloween flash fiction piece. I grinned and told him that his prank with Kate had totally burned me. Jake smiled awkwardly. We got you, huh? It was Kate's idea. Everything was made up, he claimed.

There was no 89.1 and he had no grandmother who passed away in a home. All of the characters and situations were straight, 100% fiction. I told him good job and to keep writing. Still, the situation seemed amiss, like I was missing part of the act. Was it possible that these two were so committed to screwing with me that they wouldn't even speak at school? Or maybe they were dating and didn't want anyone else to know, so they played it cool in the hallways and in class. They were 15-year-old kids, after all. That seemed reasonable.

But it was keeping me awake at night. Nothing else mattered. I taught during the day and I obsessed over the stories in the evening. News, sports and current events faded to the background. The real world slipped away. I pushed forward. Armed with a couple of possible last names, thank you, school records, I called senior citizen homes in the area.

I was trying to track down my mum's old friend Rosie, I told them. Each phone call followed the same script. The receptionist went through the files and found nothing. No one there by either last name I had. I scoured the internet, and I spent too much time in the stacks of the local library. I found no folklore nor urban legends relating to 89.1. And each time I felt like quitting, I pulled out my photocopy of Kate's story. She had visited Jake's grandmother. It simply felt so real. I knew it wasn't fake.

In a last-ditch effort, I spent a lot of time alone in my bedroom, listening to the static of 89.1 with my eyes closed and the door slightly ajar. I'd hone in on the static, and I'd listened deeply and intently for the chime. of the organ, the harsh and troubled screams in the distance and the clinkety clink of the metal chains. Sometimes I think it was there, and I just had to focus a little harder. And I'd sense a presence in my bedroom about to creep out of my closet, the dark mist waiting to drag me away. I wanted it to come, because I wanted this story to be real. But it didn't come. One day at school I saw Jake and Kate smile. and laughing at Jake's locker.

I walked past them, and Kate winked at me. That was the clincher. I finally succumbed to the notion that I'd been had. It was over. I ended my search for 89.1. I had drinks again with my colleague, many drinks this time, and I drunkenly told him everything I'd been doing. He found my investigation ridiculous

and ultimately dangerous. You like stories too much. If I didn't know any better, it's almost like you're trying to write one of your own. Just let it go. I pulled out the photocopied stories from my back pocket, and I pressed them down on the bar, staining them with splashes of beer. My colleague picked up Jake's story, and he took a look at it for the first time. His eyes skimmed the page, and they stopped cold. You never told me about Abby.

I shrugged. Abby was Kate, I told him. It was all part of the game. I wonder. Hmm. He laid it out for me. A year ago, about ten months before I moved into town, an eighth grader named Abby had gone missing, seemingly vanished into thin air. One minute she was alone in her room.

and the next minute she was gone. Some suspected that she ran away, but there were no clues, no evidence of foul play, no suspicious or shady family members or neighbours. She was simply gone. I read Kate's piece again. My heart sank.

The whole time, I assumed it was about her visiting the grandmother, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe the squeaks and please, These coming from the closet were coming from Abbey. Kate never specified who she was visiting or where she was. I read the avant-garde flash fiction one more time, honing in on every word just to be sure. And at that moment, everything changed.

I spoke with the school administration. They contacted the authorities and the police had conversations with Jake and Kate. It went nowhere. didn't matter that Abby had lived across the street from Jake. It didn't matter that we had words on paper. They were just stories, the kids said. Only stories. Complete fiction. Jake had no grandparents in a home anyway. They were sorry if they'd scared anyone. They were Halloween stories after all, and pretty ambiguous stories at that. Jake even tearfully apologized for naming a fictional character after a missing girl. It hadn't crossed his mind. And I was now the monster for dragging two

innocent kids into this mess. The staff ostracized me and the town crucified me. I was done. I left the teaching profession soon after that. I walked out of the school holding my small crate of supplies and Kate smirked at me with a knowing glance through her first floor window. I haven't seen her since. I didn't. take much with me, but I did take the photocopies of the stories. I pull them out occasionally and relive the past. And sometimes, late at night, I'll get a fire in my belly and a burning desire to travel back to that small Wisconsin town. Maybe Grandma Rosie was a great aunt that Jake's family referred to as Grandma, or maybe it was an elderly family friend. Maybe I missed something about the

the missing girl, about 89.1, about Kate's intentions. Perhaps I can try the ritual a few more times just to see what happens. Or maybe it's just all bullshit. It was 10 years ago, and I'm probably the only one that thinks there's a shred of truth in no stories. I'd be wasting my time. But it still keeps me up at night, the slim chance that it's all true. And oftentimes the idea of it is something I contemplate more than what really happened to Abby and the grandmother in the story. If it is true, why did the kids write it all down like that? I don't have a good answer. I'll never have one. I suppose that just like me, they really just enjoy a good story.

Our final tale, we are reminded that hallows. Halloween is also a night in which sometimes the treats are replaced by tricks. The trickiest of authors, William Dalfen, has crafted a tale about two boys whose lust for candy is superseded by the desire to prank a beloved member of the community, all in the name of peer pressure. And as you know, sometimes pranks to prank don't quite turn out as planned. Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Nicole Doolan, and Erica Sanderson. So enjoy this while it's around, because this just might be the last Halloween.

I don't celebrate Halloween. When the trick-or-treaters come out and start prowling my street, I make sure to keep my front porch light off and pull the shades down. If someone rings my doorbell, despite all my precautions, I hide in the bedroom and pray they don't ring it again. There's always a fear that maybe it's not a child in a ninja turtle mask or wearing a sheet over their head. Maybe, just maybe. It's Granny Clark. Granny Clark is the reason I stopped celebrating Halloween. Abigail Clark, known to everyone in Hollisfield as Granny Clark,

was the kindest, sweetest old lady in existence. She lived in a little green house at the top of Tamarack Lane that bordered a broad expanse of forest. She'd lived there since as long as anyone could remember. Someone once told me she was over a hundred, years old, and nobody within earshot challenged the claim. I absolutely believed them. Juniper Street, the street I lived on, just happened to touch that same forest as Granny Clark's. There was a path that wound through the woods all the way up the hill to her driveway.

Many an afternoon was spent playing in those woods, climbing trees, building forts out of sticks, or running down that winding path from Granny Clark's driveway to the end of Juniper Street, pretending wolves were biting at my heels. I always felt somewhat unnerved being around Granny Clark. Maybe it was the way she walked, all hunched over, her arms bent at the elbows like a Tyrannosaurus. Maybe it was her shock white hair that stuck out in all directions. Or maybe it was the way I could see her blood vexed. vessels clear as day through her translucent liver-spotted skin, and the way her fingers seemed

unnaturally long and thin. My mother took me to see her once when I was seven, because they were coordinating together on an arts and crafts table at the local fair. I remember that her little green house smelled like lavender and mothballs, and the rooms were lined with photos of children. Some of the photos were in black and white or faded like they had been taken many years ago. Are these all your kids? I asked Granny Clark. She smiled and looked around the room. These are all my lovely babies.

Afterward, as my mother and I walked down the path to Juniper Street hand in hand, I told her how amazing I thought it was that one person could have so many children. She just laughed at me. They aren't really her kids. Miss Clark doesn't have any children of her own. Those are photos of other people's kids. Why does she have photos of other people's kids? Because their parents gave them to her. Did she give her my photo? Not yet. I looked up at my mother with concern. Please don't. She first. She frowned, but said nothing the rest of the walk home. Five years later, I got permission to go trick-or-treating with my friend Spencer on Halloween.

Spencer lived over on Rosemond Avenue, which connected with a number of other streets, including Tamarack Lane. The neighborhoods over and around Rosemond were considered the best area for trick-or-treating in town, far superior to the neighborhood down around my neck of the woods. Together we convinced both our parents that we were old enough to go on our own and that they would just slow us down. What I didn't know at the time was that Spencer had other plans. When my dad dropped me off at his doorstep in my pirate costume, complete with eye patch,

black marker goate and stuffed parrot velcroed to my shoulder, Spencer was already outside, sitting on the front stoop. He was going as either a zombie or an accident victim. I never really asked. His clothes were all torn and covered in stage blood. He'd used some sort of wax to create open sores on his arms and face. I was genuinely impressed with the amount of work he'd put into making himself look grotesque. Once my father's car rolled out of sight, Spencer grabbed me by the arm and hauled me around.

the side of his house to the garage. Listen, you have to help me pull something off. It better not be your pants. Josh dared me to prank old lady Clark. Josh Gurrey was a kid in our grade who Spencer had a habit of budding heads with. They'd had a rivalry ever since they had to wrestle in gym class and Spencer pinned Josh in under a minute. Since then, Josh was always trying to make Spencer look weak in front of the other kids our age, and Spencer refused to ignore it whenever he did, probably out of a matter of pride.

Granny Clark? I didn't like the idea of doing anything to anyone, let alone an elderly person. Spencer saw the concern in my eye. We're not going to do anything serious? What were you planning? It's simple. You distract her by trick-or-treating at her front door. Just keep her talking.

I'm going to go in the back and then... No way. I'm not going to be an accomplice to breaking and entering. It's not breaking in. She always leaves her back door unlocked. That seemed like an odd thing to know. Anyway, I'll go in the back, sneak up stairs, and toilet paper her indoor. entire bedroom.

As if to prove the legitimacy of his plan, Spencer pulled a large roll of bathroom tissue out of his trick-or-treat bag. What will that prove to Josh? That you can tee-pee some half-blind old lady's house? Are you going to help me or not? Because you can always walk home if you want. We stared at each other through our makeup effects for a couple minutes before I sighed and gave in. But promise me, we'll do a bit of trick-or-treating, too. Otherwise, my parents will know we were

up to something. Of course. I want candy, too. Jeez. With that, we set out. Trying not to seem obvious, we meandered around the neighborhood for a half-hour, letting the sun set, and waiting for most of the other trick-or-treaters to finish going down Tamarack Lane, to reduce the chances of someone spotting us. I got some candy to get started on my alibi in case I was questioned later as to my involvement in scaring an old lady to death. My stomach was very unhappy with me and made it known by clenching up like a fist. I was hot in my pirate costume, but my whole body was shaking with anxiety. Finally, when the street lights had turned on and all the very small goblins and fairies, had been carted off back to their homes, Spencer nudged me in the ribs and nodded silently in the direction

of the forest. I nodded back and we made a beeline for Tamarack Lane, trying to make small talk to continue looking inconspicuous. When we got to the end of Tamarack Lane, Spencer threw his arm out stopping me in my tracks. We both stood looking at the little green house at the top of the hill. The front porch light was off. Shit. Well, she's in bed. Abort mission. I started to turn when Spencer grabbed my arm.

Wait, I think I see her moving about in the kitchen. There was someone moving around in the kitchen. I couldn't make out who, just a silhouette pacing around in the back of the house, right near the door Spencer was planning to sneak in through. Spencer reached into his trick-or-treat bag, fumbling around for a minute before pulling something out and shoving it into my chest. Here, take this. I took what he handed to me and looked down at it. A walkie-talkie? Are you serious?

Stick it in your candy bag. Then go ring the doorbell. And if you can't keep her busy, just reach in and click the button on the front twice. I'll hear it and bail. Dude, the porch light is off. Spencer looked at me, and I saw the desperation in his eyes. He had to prove himself to Josh in this stupid, juvenile, and ridiculous way. And if I didn't help him, he was probably going to do something even dumber.

Or, worse yet, in his mind, go back to school and confess to Josh that he didn't do it. I sighed and dropped the walkie-talkie into my bag. Just go and get it done quick. Granny Clark gives me the creeps. Spencer ducked down low and crept off into the trees and bushes by the side of the road. In an instant he was out of my sight, though I heard him shuffling around, snapping twigs and cursing as he stumbled around in the dark. Once he was gone, I took a deep breath and looked up at the little green house.

It seemed bigger, suddenly, and a darker shade of green, though I knew it was more my mind playing tricks on me than anything. Through the window, the silhouette of Abigail Granny Clark shuffled about in her kitchen, occasionally disappearing out of sight around the corner, only to shuffle past in the opposite direction a moment later. I ascended the front porch steps, my right hand sliding into the candy bag to feel the walkie-talkie, and make sure it was face up for easy access to the emergency button on the front. My pirate makeup was probably starting to run down my face due to the sudden sweat I'd built up on my forehead.

The stuffed parrot on my shoulder felt like it was getting heavier. Somewhere, deep inside me, a little voice was one. whispering, I don't want to be here over and over again. I felt certain I was going to hurl at any second. Time to nut up or shut up, I whispered to nobody. My finger wouldn't push the doorbell button. It hovered there in front of it for a solid minute, just trembling in fear. Then the walkie-talkie in my bag squawked once loudly. and I clutched my chest as my heart lurched. Okay, okay. I snarled quietly through gritted teeth at Spencer,

who I knew was sending me a signal. I rang the doorbell. The sound of busy work inside the house stopped. I hadn't really been paying attention to the banging and thumping going on inside, but when silence passed over the house, I became horribly aware of the noises that had been going on as I approached. A sliding sound, followed by another thump, then a louder thump. Should I ring the bell again, I thought?

Footsteps answered my question. Heavy, slow footsteps coming to the front door. The sound of their approach served to fill my tankard of dread, even first. There was a hesitation in them, like Granny Clark wasn't sure what to do, or maybe she was waiting to see if I'd leave. Please don't make me ring the bell again. The porch light came on, and I froze. It was like being cast suddenly in a spotlight.

There I was for all to see. Through the small, semi-circular window on the door I caught a brief glimpse of someone looking out to see who had wrung the bell. I couldn't make out her eyes, just her eyebrows and darkness. Then the door creaked open, and I was face to face with Abigail Clark. She looked haggard. Her eyes were sunken and hidden in shadow. Her features were even more pale than usual, and her whole face seemed to hang off her skull. She had pulled a shawl over her head hiding most of her shock white hair. I could only see a few strands hanging down in her face.

I swallowed the lump burning in my chest. My throat felt so parched suddenly. Trick or treat? Granny Clark didn't say a word. She just stood there, not moving, staring at me with her dark eyes and that sickly-looking face. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of movement behind her in the kitchen

and knew Spencer had entered the house. I needed to fill the silence or he'd be busted for sure. I coughed loudly, then blinked several times, trying to think of something to say. Miss Clark, I'm sorry if we, if, if, if I woke you. Oh shit, I said we. My, my mother insisted I stopped by and say hello while I'm out trick-or-treating tonight and, and I almost forgot.

I knew she'd be disappointed if I went home and, and told her I hadn't paid you a visit, so I was hoping that despite your light being off, you'd. Granny Clark opened me. the door further, stepping halfway out onto the porch. As she did so, I noted the heavy brown coat she was wearing. I also noticed a pair of thick gloves on her hands. She seemed to straighten and turn reaching behind the door jam for what I assumed was a bowl of candy. Are you having trouble with the heat in your house, Miss Clark? I could hear myself and it sounded like like I was going to cry. Why wasn't she speaking? One gloved hand beckoned me closer. Her breathing

sounded labored and ragged, every exhalation gurgling like a diver using a snorkel. The expression on her face never changed. No sign of joy or excitement like I had seen every time we'd visited her in the past. She seemed like she seemed like. like an entirely different woman, and I felt sensations of discomfort and fear battling each other in my gut. I stepped closer holding my bag out when a heavy thump came from the back of the house, followed quickly by a clatter of dishes shattering on the floor. Granny Clark and I both stiffened. Granny Clark turned her head in the direction of kitchen, where Spencer seemed,

determined to make as much noise as he possibly could. It sounded like he had started having a seizure back there and was flopping around on the kitchen tiles, slapping everything in sight. Panic lurched out of the pit of my stomach. It felt like my eyes were going to bulge out of their sockets as I tried to think of anything to say to save the situation. My mind blanked with just the word go, flashing like a neon side. in the center of my brain. Without another word, I turned away to make a hasty retreat. Granny Clark's heavily gloved hand clamped down around my wrist. For being over a hundred years old, so they said. She had a grip like a lumberjack. She squeezed so tight my legs turned to

instant jello, dropping me to my knees. My goody bag hit the ground with a loud clatter as I grabbed at her hand crying out in pain. Miss Clark, you're hurting me. Her other hand behind the door jam appeared, holding not a bowl, but a large box cutter. She extended the blade, looking at me with the same emotionless expression and pulling me closer to her. The whole moment was so surreal, I just knelt there on the porch as she dragged me. toward her trying to understand what was happening.

Why was she holding the box cutter? Where was the candy? What's going on? It was Spencer who saved me. His voice echoed, once screaming distantly from the kitchen, while almost at the same time crackling over the airwaves and coming out of the bag at my feet. Granny Clark turned again in the direction of the kitchen

as she caught sight of Spencer dashing past throwing open the back door and disappearing into the backyard. In so doing, her grip loosened on my wrist ever so slightly, just enough for me to twist my arm and squeeze through her fingers. She turned back to me, grasping at me with her free hand, while the one holding the box cutter arched back threateningly. Even then, laying there on the porch, watching the kindest old woman in town come at me,

The blade of the box cutter glinting from the streetlights. I tried to rationalize the situation. This wasn't the Granny Clark I knew. I looked up at her, sobbing in panic and trying to find the words to calm her. I scrambled back afoot. Please, it was just a joke. I'm sorry. The left half of Granny Clark's face seemed to sag. like it was melting.

Her eye looked funny, droopy. The guttural breathing suddenly sounded more like a snarl, feral and angry. She brought the blade down, and I instinctively raised my arms to protect myself, screaming in pain as I felt its edge sliced through the fabric of my costume and opened the flesh of my arm.

I did not give her. her a second chance. My legs, which had surrendered to gravity, felt an intense burning of adrenaline pump through them. Tucking into myself, I rolled backward, trying to gain my footing, but ended up tumbling down the porch steps instead. White-hot pain shot up my left side, and I screamed again, but refused to pause. I was too driven by blind panic. I got to my feet. I got to my feet, in a hurry as the old woman on the porch straightened up, towering over me like a giant. She tromped toward the steps with a frightening determination. Spencer, eyes wide with terror, came around the corner of the house at full tilt.

He surveyed this scenario unfolding on the front porch, and a look of confusion washed over him for a second, before he grabbed me by the arm and spun me around. Make for the woods. And with that, he was off like a shot, sprinting to the end of the driveway where the forest started. I ran hot on his heels, my arm and my head both throbbing. Dizziness and nausea swept over me, and I tripped over my feet, colliding with the side of Granny Clark's car, and pausing for the briefest of moments to vomit down the side of it. How would everything come?

gone so wrong. Before I could collect my thoughts, I heard the heavy thud of boots, and looking back saw Granny Clark's hulking form lurching toward me. Silhouetted by street lamps in her heavy coat with the shawl over her head, she looked massive, like a lumbering horror hell-bent on my destruction. Nobody's going to believe this. Even I don't believe it, and I'm sick. seen it, I thought. I shook it off and bolted for the tree line. I knew if I could just make it to Juniper Street, I'd be safe. The trail was a windy quarter mile, but it was all downhill, and I had enough terror-based energy pumping through my veins to keep me going. I'd run that path for years and knew every gnarled route that might trip me up, every change in the angle of the descent,

curve to avoid a tree in the dark. Just get home. The moon was out, and it was filtering through the branches, making beams in the dust kicked up by Spencer before me. It highlighted the path and cast the forest in a creepy blue hue. Everything around me seemed to glow. If I hadn't been running for my life, I might have stopped to take it in. The adrenaline coursing.

through me made time seem like it was slowing down. Every footfall felt like I was slogging through thick mud. I've never been as perfectly attuned to my senses as I was sprinting through the forest that Halloween. I could hear everything around me, my breath coming out slow and focused, my heart thumping in my ears, the snapping of branches further down the path as Spencer, Less familiar with the way ran ahead. And the heavy clumping of someone coming down the trail behind me. I did it, knowing all the stories of people being told not to look back, and all the bad things that happened to them when they did.

I did it, not wanting to really see what it was, because I knew. I did it. and all my hopes of making it home disappeared in a flurry of wings like a flock of startled pigeons. Granny Clark was right behind me, thundering down the trail like a rampaging elephant. She was a good 20 paces back, but I could see her perfectly in every sliver of moonlight we both ran through. The most frightening thing about her was the look on her face. It wasn't one of anger or even of determination. In fact, there was no expression whatsoever.

Her eyes were dead. Her mouth seemed to hang open. The left half of her face still sloughed down like melting candle wax. And then the wind whipped her shawl off. Went with it, slid off as easily as a Halloween mask, disappearing somewhere on the trail behind her as she closed in on me, as determined and frightening as ever. Where her face had been, there was blood.

Just blood everywhere could finally see her eyes through it all. And they were looking at me with a terrible rage and madness like I had never seen before. I thought I was going insane. She bore down on me the sight of her hate-filled bloody face burning forever into my mind. Her hands reached out trying to grab me and guide me to hell. But all I could focus on was that scarlet face. the true fury within her finally revealed. There was a sharp turn in the path, and I slowed for only a fraction of a second to make it.

Granny Clark was not as familiar with the trail, her momentum driving her straight on. Her fingers lick past the back of my head and wrapped around the stuffed parrot on my shoulder. She tore it off, just as she barreled headlong into the tree. behind me, crashing to a stop with a violent abruptness, and then she can have the parrot. Burst out of the woods and onto the tarmac of Juniper Street, I was moving like all of hell was on my heels. Ahead I saw Spencer slowing, trying to catch his breath as he reached the driveway to my house. Somewhere along the way he had lost his own trick-or-treat bag, and most of his makeup had run off.

Don't stop! I screamed at him. He turned, seeing me hurtling down the road, and hurried up to the front door, banging on it and shouting. I dashed up the front sidewalk, shoving him aside and throwing my shoulder into the door, having enough sense to just turn the knob and open it.

We fell over each other in the landing, and Spencer kicked futilely, trying to close the door behind him. I climbed over him and slammed it, Then deadbolted it and leaned my full weight against it, breaking down into tears while clutching my arm. Jesus Christ! We both started shouting over each other, neither one listening to the other until my mom and dad, hearing the commotion ran in from the living room to find us yelling and bloody.

They looked us over with mild annoyance until my mom saw my shirt soaked red with blood, and her eyes bugged out. What the hell happened? I sobbed. My mind retraced everything that I had just witnessed. Her face. I took her face! It came right off.

Both of my parents looked equal parts concerned and nonplussed. I could tell they thought we had just spooked ourselves and gotten hurt running away. I waved my hands at Spencer to silence him, then told them everything. As my story unfolded, their expressions vacillated between doubt, anger, and concern, honestly telling them that Granny Clark attacked me with a knife and then chased me through the woods before her face peeled off, I had a hard time believing it myself. When I finished, Spencer told his sight. When I went in through the back door, I could see Will and what I thought was Granny Clark at the front door.

I tried to creep around to the stairs, but I tripped over a pair of legs, Miss Clark's legs. She was lying in the food pantry. I'd never seen Spencer cry before, but his eyes welled up with tears as he continued. Her face was missing. I could see all this stuff underneath. They had pulled it all right off, just like peeling an orange. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, they took... My mom disappeared into the kitchen where I could hear her using the phone to call the police.

My father stood there, shaking his head in disbelief at us. Spencer and I locked eyes. That wasn't her. I realized it wasn't her on the porch, and I told you to run. I'm so sorry. I hugged him, forgetting the pain in my arm for a moment as he bawled his fists up in my shirt and buried his face in my chest, adding his tears to the blood and sweat that I was thoroughly soaked in. I'm so sorry.

When the police got to Abigail Clark's house, they found her, just as Spencer had described. Her throat had been slit, and all the flesh on her face had been removed. They also found that whoever had murdered her had torn up the carpeting in her living room and started pulling up floorboards, apparently looking for something. They suspected that the killer had heard a room. that the old lady had a fortune hidden in the walls or floor of her house. We had all heard that rumor before, but nobody in town really believed it. In the woods, they found the remains of her face cut from ear to ear and worn like a mask. They also found my stuffed parrot lying in the leaves

by a blood-covered tree had the turn that had saved me. One of the branches on the tree was snapped and dripping with the stuff. Even more blood was found where the path opened out onto Juniper Street. But after that, the trail went cold. They found the killer a day later.

An unemployed carpenter from two towns over with a history of violence. He checked into the hospital with a gout out I, claiming he had accidentally impaled himself while hanging a picture. Apparently his blood work came back with two different types on him, one of which was identified as belonging to Abigail Clark. Thankfully, he confessed, saving the police from having to ask Spencer or I if we could identify him. Neither of us would have been able to, and neither of us wanted to ever.

ever see him again. I do see him, though, regularly. Whenever the scar on my arm flares up, and my dreams become of running down that moonlit trail in the woods with him, just ten steps behind me, the face I see isn't his. It's always Granny Clark's face, devoid of emotion, Yet every step filled with that angry determination of catching me and putting me in the ground. Granny-Cloved person, Hollisfield, has ever known, is the monster that haunts my worst nightmares. We thank you for being with us for our devilishly dark... If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions 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 1999. On behalf of everyone at the no sleep podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week when the darkness pulls you away from sleep. This audio program is copyright 2015 to 2016, Creative Reason Media, Inc. All 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.