The NoSleep Podcast - S20 Ep5: NoSleep Podcast S20E05 Halloween 2023

Episode Date: October 29, 2023

It's Episode 05 of Season 20. Come join us around the campfire for our annual Halloween extravaganza!“Mr. Harmon Hated Halloween” written by T. Michael Argent (Story starts around 00:02:30)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – David Cummings, Mr. Harmon – Graham Rowat, Ghost – Erika Sanderson“Uncle Pumpkin’s Tongue” written by Warren Benedetto (Story starts around 00:19:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Kyle Akers, Simon – Elie Hirschman, Attendant – Matthew Bradford, Uncle Pumpkin – Jesse Cornett“I Will Wait for You” written by Caleb Stephens (Story starts around 00:30:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Nikolle Doolin, Daughter – Mary Murphy, You – Kristen DiMercurio“Date Night” written by Charlie Davenport (Story starts around 00:39:25)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: David CummingsCast: Ernie – Dan Zappulla, Maggie – Sarah Thomas, Mom – Kristen DiMercurio, Jared Chartier – Elie Hirschman, Dad – Jesse Cornett, Mr. Ekman – Mike DelGaudio, Mrs. Miller – Nikolle Doolin, Evie Kelly – Mary Murphy, Punk – Kyle Akers, Jan – Danielle McRae, Dr. McPhee – Peter Lewis, Belinda – Nichole Goodnight“The Great Pumpkin Massacre” written by C.B. Jones (Story starts around 01:19:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Jeff Clement, Nathan – Erika Sanderson, Blake – Matthew Bradford, Jesse – Mike DelGaudio, Teresa – Linsay Rousseau, Pumpkin Man – Peter Lewis, Sheridan – Danielle McRae“The Safety in Fear” written by Sean Dermot Lehane (Story starts around 01:57:15)Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator – Atticus Jackson, Matt – Graham Rowat, Sarah – Kristen DiMercurio, Suzie – Nichole Goodnight, Steve – Mike DelGaudioClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about the new book by Marcus Damanda, “Murdered Darlings”Click here to learn more about T. Michael ArgentClick here to learn more about Warren BenedettoClick here to learn more about Sean Dermot Lehane Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Safety in Fear” illustration courtesy of Catriel TallaricoAudio program ©2023 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

A night to remember the dead, to revere those things which hide in the shadows. To celebrate the sinister majesty of horror. Plunge the knife into the skull of that pumpkin. And the candy has been collected. It's time to embrace the sawing terror. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. The No Sleep Podcast, 2023. Halloween extravaganza. I'm your host, David Cummings. We are delighted that you've joined us to celebrate

Halloween horror. And while it's Halloween every day at the No Sleep podcast, this episode allows us to feature tales centered around the unholy day itself. And it's also the perfect time to share a new collection of stories written by friend of the show and longtime No Sleep collaborator, Marcus Demanda. Marcus's new book is titled Murdered Darlings, and it features stories written with the macabre twists and turns Marcus is well known for. It features a few stories you may have heard on the podcast, and plenty of originals which will surely make your Halloween and beyond all the more ghoulish. Check the show notes for a link to where you can find Murdered Darling's by Marcus Demanda.

And with this extra long episode ready to go, I think it's time to settle next to the campfire and let the spirits of the night surround you. Because now the sun has set, the pumpkin glows bright. Brace yourself for the darkness of Halloween night. In our first tale, we meet a man whose opinion about Halloween is, well, it's not good. Yes, just like some others out there who fancy themselves the Ebenezer Scrooge of Halloween, This man just wants to ignore the day. But in this tale, shared with us by author T. Michael Argent,

despite the man's best efforts, Halloween night has found a way to get the spirit in him. Performing this tale with me are Graham Rowett and Erica Sanderson. So don't be like this man. Enjoy the Halloween fun, even though Mr. Harmon hated Halloween. Mr. Harmon hated Halloween. Always had, never had a use for it. A lifelong bachelor without nieces or nephews,

hence certainly no children of his own, he detested the idea of it more with each passing year. Why should he shell out hard-earned money to buy candy for the ungrateful little snots who ambled up his front walk? It wasn't like they were starving for sugar. And the rules. Decorate, but not too much, not too scary. either. If he admitted it to himself, scaring the kids was the only aspect of the holiday he could

get behind. Don't hand out too much candy or you'll make the neighbors look bad. Too little, well, you're asking for toilet paper in your trees and eggs on your walls. So, every year, on the hateful evening when the darkness began to settle and the first few ghosts and goblins started creeping by on the sidewalk, he shut off the lights, put a no soliciting sign on the door, and hold up in his bedroom until morning. The bottle of Burgundy and a third rewatch of chef's table made the night a bit more bearable. Mr. Harmon, in one of his few festive flights of fancy,

had elected to write the sign this year with black and orange ink. Maybe this minuscule compromise would keep the worst of the sugar fiends off his lawn. He peered through his front window. The streetlights were on, the sky was taking on a purple hue, And the neighbors across the street were posing in costume for a friend with a camera. Mom and Dad were Fred and Daphne. The two kids were Scooby-Doo. Guess they couldn't afford an orange sweater for the daughter.

Having already applied tape to the corners of his homemade sign, Mr. Harmon tried to be as quick as possible. But no sooner had he opened his door when Mrs. Welch called an all-too-chery Halloween greeting. He put on what could charitably be called an upturned grimace. and turned towards the road to wave. In that split second, his eyes fell on the ghost. It was the one costume on the street that reminded him of his youth, a simple white bed sheet, long enough to cover the legs completely,

and two eye holes. The boy, girl, he couldn't tell, stood stalk still on the sidewalk, just a few feet away from the pose in welches, an anomaly among other children scampering by dressed as bluey or sponge bob. Watching. Mr. Harmon squinted and looked closer.

The sheet rippled in the autumn breeze, inexplicably free of dirt stains near the feet. The eye holes as well. Was he seeing things, or did they appear simply dark on the inside? The child retained its sedentary position, facing the house. A chill ran down his spine.

Stupid holiday. He quickly finished fastening the sign and darted inside, slamming and locking the door with a force that belied his aloof inner monologue. In the kitchen, he snatched the biggest wine glass he could find and filled it to the brim. Taking sips, he turned off the last of the lights, plunging the ground floor into darkness. He grabbed the curtains on the front window, hesitated and chanced one more look. The welches were gone, so was the ghost. He sighed and shut the curtains.

As he headed upstairs, distant laughter and running feet echoed outside. The wine was sour in his mouth when he woke up. The only light in the bedroom came from the TV, which bathed everything in the sickly gray glow of the Are You Still Watching screen. He lay tangled in the sheets, neck sore from dozing off at the wrong angle. Mr. Harmon groaned and peered at the clock on the nightstand. 8.47. He'd been out for two hours. His head felt foggy and thick, probably from drinking the wine too fast.

He rolled off the bed and had one slipper on before wondering what had woken him up. Ah, no matter. Glass in hand, he made his way down the staircase without turning on the lights. Just as his foot hit the bottom step, a sound made him freeze. A light tapping on the front door. His hand began to tremble. He could picture it now. The ghost in its sheet, silent on the front stoop, one arm raised and wanting in. He'd remembered to turn off the porch light, hadn't he?

He could have forgotten in his haste to get upstairs. He thought of the sign. Can't these brats read? Maybe they don't know what soliciting means. likely though it was some kid in a too expensive party city costume whose older brother had dared him to knock on the dark house he really shouldn't be angry it was a strangely charitable thought for mr harmon on this wretched day of all days he realized he hadn't moved for over a minute when the tapping came again a bit harder this time oh what the hell maybe my get-up this year can be old grouch who screams Get off my lawn. He strode forward, flipped the deadbolt, swung open the door, and began speaking as the cold air from outside washed over him.

Sorry, kid, no candy here. Try next door. If I had a dictionary, I'd give it to you so you can look up. He'd been so wrapped up in the prepared speech, he didn't register who was standing in front of him until the wind blew a fold of the white sheet against his leg. It was the ghost. One hand raised, frozen in the air as if waiting to knock again. The sheet covered the whole arm, with no edges peeking out from it to the ground to allow a look at the child inside. He stared, dumbfounded.

Did it look taller than before? In his memory, the top of the sheet had been level with Mrs. Welch's waist, but now it was up to his. The eyes, the black pits that had frightened him before, bore into his face with an odd look of expectancy. In the few seconds Mr. Harmon processed all this. The ghost lowered its arm and spoke in a thin, high-pitched rasp, genderless and old. The wind blew the fabric against his leg again. It felt rough and starchy, not like a bedsheet at all.

As it billowed in the wind, he swore the figure grew tall. Holler still until it was now at his chest. With a gasp of fright, Mr. Harmon shut the door and bolted it again. He now regretted turning off all the lights down here. As he stumbled through the dark towards the kitchen, he desperately tried to rationalize what he had seen. It must be some new kind of costume. One that, I don't know, change his appearance or something.

Where do parents get the money nowadays? It was a feeble excuse, and he knew it. He flipped on the kitchen light and started eagerly towards the bottle of wine. One more glass, and I'll forget all about this. He began emptying it into the glass. A sharp wrapping on the window above the sink caused him to stumble, sloshing the wine onto the counter. He cursed and chanced to look up as he set the bottle down.

The ghost stared at him from behind. the glass, sheet-clad arm raised like before. It had gone into the backyard, trespassed on his property, but something else troubled him as he gazed into the black holes again. Six feet off the ground, and it's looking me in the face. The awful voice came from the depths of the costume, muffled, but still audible. Mr. Harmon watched with mounting horror as the sheet, flapping as if in a gale force wind settled on the outside sill. It began to slip under the crack, slowly making its way through and down the back splash. Without thinking, he grabbed the bottle, careless of the wine freely flowing out the open top

and brought it down on the encroaching fabric. It exploded in a shower of glass, but the liquid flowed off the sheet as if it were waterproof. The shards that embedded in his hand were dripping blood, and that was sliding off too. Clutching his wrist, he hurried towards the stairs. He'd left his phone on the nightstand in the bedroom. What the hell am I going to tell him? Help, a bed sheet is terrorizing me?

He chanced to look back just before the kitchen was out of sight and regretted it immediately. In the short time it had taken him to reach the stairs, the sheet had forced itself through the window and was billowing across the floor. There was no indication. anything was underneath it. Hopelessness took him over, but he slammed the bedroom door anyway.

It would buy him time, at least. He had only just pushed the lock when the hammering came. It sounded like the door was being struck with a bowling ball. And again, the voice came. Trick or tree. He ignored the pit mounting in his stomach and dove towards the nightstand. The room was. still bathed in the gray glow of the TV screen. He misjudged and took an awkward step,

falling to the side. As he hit the floor, phone slipping out of his bloody fingers, he heard a crack and felt a shower of wood splinters. Mr. Harmon breathed heavily and only had time to turn onto his back when the door caved in, breaking off the hinges and landing with a loud bang upon the hardwood. The ghost was so tall now It had to lower itself to step into the room Its head brushed the ceiling The black, emotionless eyes peered down at him As the figure paused

Tears streaming down his face, he cried What do you want? There was an awful moment of silence Before the answer came One word, but enough to make Mr. Herman scream And throw his arms in front of his face and it tipped forward, losing the human-like shape underneath as it collapsed in on itself. The white cloud billowed down as he continued to scream.

It seemed to flow over him, covering his face and restricting his movements as it pressed tighter against him. He realized too late that it had flowed into his open mouth. As the rough fabric slid down his throat and he gagged, he slipped mercifully into unconscious. It was dark in the room when he awoke. For a brief, awful second, he thought the sheet was still over him before he realized he was lying on his own bed. He quickly glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Nine, ten. The whole thing had happened in less than half an hour.

What a nightmare! He leaned back against the pillows and breathed heavily. It was all over now. There was no ghost. No wine for him for a while. His thoughts were interrupted by knocking from below, echoing through the now empty bedroom doorframe. There was something moving beneath his skin.

All around his body, it felt as if there was a rough layer between the bones and the muscle. It scratched at the nerves and sent waves of pain through his limbs. Involuntarily, he stood up and began walking out of the room. Each movement, each muscle spasm that worked to push him down the stairs and towards the front door was against his will. He opened his mouth in a desperate attempt to force whatever was inside him out, but only saw a bit of white slip out before disappearing back in. Mr. Harmon was powerless as he opened the door.

A boy stood there in a skeleton costume, gripping an orange plastic pumpkin. A group of kids waited at the end of the walk, a wash in the streetlights, watching to see the results of their dare. A blinding, hammering pain suddenly erupted in his head. There was a dull, clattering sound, like the branches of a windswept tree colliding with each other. It was so loud, it sounded like it had come from inside his skull. It felt like something was knocking against his very bones,

wanting to be answered. judging by the step backwards the boy took, he heard the sounds as well. Mr. Harmon opened his mouth, to scream, to beg for help, he wasn't sure. But what came out instead was a ghastly mixture of his own voice and the dry rasp of the ghost, speaking one on top of each other. And his chest exploded outward, spraying the skeleton with blood as a white sheet. arm tore its way through fragments of bone. One of the best parts of the Halloween season is all the fall festivals and visits to local

farms which feature hayrides, corn mazes, and plenty of playful pumpkin patch partying. Good clean family fun, no? Well, in this tale, shared with us by author Warren Benedetto, we meet someone who isn't too keen about one particular attraction at the local fall festival. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres, Ellie Hirschman, Matthew Bradford, and Jesse Cornett. So perhaps you should stick to the hayrides and sipping hot apple cider. Far better than going on Uncle Pumpkin's tongue. I wish I had warned someone about Uncle Pumpkin.

Maybe I could have stopped him. Maybe I could have saved those poor kids. But until recently, I had no memory of the man. at all. It was only after the body of the missing children were found. One boy still clutching a deflated pumpkin balloon in his shrivelled, blackened hand. That I remembered what happened that night. And I realized that one of those kids could have been me. Every October, the Rafferty family farm hosted a spectacular autumn carnival, known as Uncle Pumpkin's Festival of Fun. The festival's centerpiece was the giant slide towering over the fairgrounds.

Officially, it was called the Great Slide, but all the kids called it by its unofficial moniker, Uncle Pumpkin's tongue. It was an apt nickname. The top of the ride was framed by an enormous plywood facade, hand-painted to resemble the face of the festival's mascot, Uncle Pumpkin, flat black irises, thick eyebrows, and a twisting mustache over a gaping open-mouth smile. A red plastic slide protruded from the center of the mouth like a tongue, descending through a series of stomach-dropping humps and ending in a long straightaway with hay bales stacked at the end. Hour after hour, kids climbed the wooden staircase to the top of the slide, where a seasonal employee, usually a teen from the local high school, handed each of them

afraid burlap sack to sit on. The kids lined up five across, one in each lane of the slide, waiting for a shout of, ready, set, go, from one of the attendants. Then the riders pushed off and zipped down the slide on the sacks, each secretly hoping to be going fast enough to crash into the hay bales stacked at the end of the straightaway. My parents encouraged me to try the great slide every year, but I always refused. It wasn't the slide that scared me. It was the character of Uncle Pumpkin that I found most terrifying. He was supposed to be a silly, clown-like figure that brought joy to children around Halloween,

but the only thing he brought to me was a sense of profound unease, a lingering dread that left me feeling like I had a sandbag in my stomach. The face painted above the slide was scary enough, but the actual Uncle Pumpkin, the one roaming the festival grounds with a bouquet of pumpkin-shaped balloons, was even worse. His real name was Joe Rafferty. The middle-aged grandson of the original Uncle Pumpkin is Grandpa Fred.

Joe wore the same oversized black suit, orange bow tie, and crushed fedora that his grandfather wore in the 1940s. The classic Uncle Pumpkin features were smeared thick and messy across his pale, pock-marked face, as if he had applied the grease paint with the chewed end of an old hot dog. His mouth reeked of cigarettes. and spoiled chicken with yellowed teeth that leaned and twisted like they were trying to escape from his receding gums. He enjoyed sneaking up behind kids and poking them in the side with a bellowing

boo before handing them a balloon to quell their startled tears. The schick was intended to be funny, but it always felt cruel to me. As I grew older, my refusal to go down the Great Slide became a liability, especially when my friends wrote it without giving it a second thought. Finally, when I was 10, my friend Simon convinced me to give it a try. After saying goodbye to my parents, possibly for the last time, I feared, it began the torturous ascent up the rickety stairs toward the top of the slide. The line seemed to take forever. The higher we went, the colder the steady autumn wind got.

By the time it was my turn to ride, my teeth were chattering and my fingers were numb. Lane five. The attendant handed me a burlap sack to sit on. then pointed me to the far end of the platform. I froze, too petrified to go any further. I tried to will my legs to move, but they wouldn't respond. I was paralyzed with fear. After waiting a few seconds, Simon nudged me in the back.

Go! I'm going! I took a hesitant step, trying not to look down at the ant-sized people on the fairgrounds far below. I imagined my parents smiling proudly up at me from the bottom of the slide, having no idea that their beloved son was about to soil his jeans. Simon put his hands on my shoulders and guided me forward. Come on, let's move. He positioned me in front of lane five, took his seat in lane four,

then patted the red plastic in my lane. Here, sit. I flapped the burlap sack out flat on the slide, carefully settling my backside down onto it and closing my eyes. In the distance, I could hear squeals. of glee from the carnival rides, mixing with the twang of country western music from the stage in the barn. A strong gust of wind pushed against my back, carrying with it the smell of cigarettes and rotten chicken. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by a powerful wave of vertigo that threatened to topple me forward

down the slide. I grabbed for the sides of my lane to steady myself, but instead of cold plastic, my hands touched something else, something warm, something wet, gas. Asping with revulsion, I yanked my hands away. My eyes snapped open. The blood drained from my face. The fairgrounds were gone. Replaced by a featureless void that merged with the starless sky above. Simon was gone, too, as were all my other friends.

The attendants and everyone else waiting in the line. The sound of the festival had been replaced with a silence so absolute that my brain could only process it as a sort of rushing hiss. I was utterly alone at the top of the slide, except it wasn't a slide anymore. It was a tongue, a real tongue, Uncle Pumpkin's tongue. The slide had transformed from shiny red plastic into dull pink flesh, rippling with papillae and slicked with saliva. The tongue snaked out into the darkness beneath me so impossibly long that it seemed to disappear over the horizon.

The warmth of its flesh radiated through the burlap as the saliva soaked into my jeans and dampened the backs of my thighs. A drop of hot liquid splattered on my forehead from above and ran down over my eye. I swiped it away with the back of my wrist and looked up. Overhead, rotting yellow teeth protruded from gums, blackened with disease. Elongated drips of drool dangled from cracked and bleeding lips. I was in Uncle Pumpkin's mouth. and if I didn't get out of there right away, I knew he would swallow me whole. I'd slide down his throat and into a churning acid bath filled with half-digested chunks of kids just like me,

dissolving in a vile stew of melted flesh and bubbling fat. With a desperate cry, I closed my eyes and threw my weight forward away from Uncle Pumpkin's rotting maw. I felt myself falling, picking up speed as I slid down the spit-slicked tongue. I opened my mouth to scream, but all that came out was a strangled moan of terror. Stinking droplets of foul spittle, splattered against my face and neck as I accelerated, plummeting faster and faster through a series of nauseating drops, then rocketing off the end of the tongue and into the infinite nothingness beyond. Where I slammed feet first into a bale of hay.

Cheers erupted. I opened my eyes to see a crowd of festival goers applauding me. The noise of the festival returned. warbling unsteadily like a record player picking up speed. Simon crawled over to me, an expectant look on his face. Well, what do you think? Fun. I mumbled, still confused and disoriented by what just happened.

It was fun. I turned and looked back up the slide. It was just as it always had been. A painted Uncle Pumpkin face at the top, with a red plastic slide descending down to the ground. Whatever I experienced up there must have been my imagination. An insane hallucination brought on by panic and fear. Relieved that the nightmare was over, I climbed to my feet,

returned the burlap sac to the pile by the stairs, and followed Simon through the ride's exit. As we merged onto the crowd, a sharp finger jabbed into my side. I yelled and spun around. Uncle Pumpkin was behind me, blearing at me with a nicotine-stained grin. My bladder loosened, threatening to dump a flood of urine down my pants. I felt an overwhelming urge to run, but my legs had turned into useless sacks of grain.

There was nothing I could do but stand there in fearful silence. Uncle Pumpkin motioned to me like he wanted to tell me a secret, and then he bent down, his face drawing within an inch of my ear. He cupped his hand through his mouth as if to prevent anyone from hearing what he was about to say, then dragged his tongue along the length of my ear in a long, wet stroke. The stink of cigarettes and rotten chicken assailed my son. senses as he spoke in a breathy whisper. Boo!

Then he took my hand, pressed the string of a balloon into my palm, and ambled off into the crowd without another word. I wiped my ear with my sleeve, desperate to remove the film of foul-smelling spit the man's tongue had left on my skin. Tears welled in my eyes. What did he say? I should have just told him what happened, but I didn't. I couldn't.

Instead, I shrugged. Nothing. Just happy Halloween. Then I opened my palm and let go of the balloon, watching as it spiraled skyward into the cold October night. We know that despite the candy, the costumes, and the bobbing for apples, Halloween is ultimately intended to commemorate those who have passed on to the other side. And in this tale, shared with us by author Caleb Stevens,

we meet a woman who uses Halloween night when the veil between life and death is at its thinnest to remember a special lost person. Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Mary Murphy, and Kristen D. MacGurio. So after the candy is gone and the pumpkin candles extinguished, you can say, I will wait for you.

You dig your fingernails into your wrist as you stare out the window and wait. A gust of wind whips bits of sand against the glass, scattering tracks of it over the pain, tracks like the red ones welling up beneath your fingertips. Outside, bright peals of laughter ring out. Costumes flashed beneath a scatter of half-dead trees, orange pumpkin candy baskets bobbing like neon spectral orbs.

You see none of it. Here, none of it. Not the chimes of it. doorbells, or the muffled trick-or-treats. No, your grief holds you captive, here, at the window, like it does every year on this night, waiting, waiting for her. You glance again at the photograph clutched in your hand. Your daughter smiles back at you with those warm almond eyes so like yours. Her freckles peppered in soft brown constellations Over a pair of apple-slice cheeks

You trace your thumb across them And remember the feel of her skin on yours Her little body's so vibrant So bursting with life You would have thought she'd live forever She was your world, this girl The very heart beating in your chest You tilt your gaze up and wait for the drifts of fog

to creep in as they always do. Those first few lonesome curls that set your pulse to crashing like the waves of some great storm against a rock-strewn coast. A woman bundled in a thick wool sweater strolls by with a wobbly bumblebee in tow. A girl of maybe four,

both of them practically glowing. I used to have that once, that other life. Then you see it. A pale woman. wisp of mist coiling around the branches of the laurel oak where you pushed your daughter on her rope's wing and you nearly forget to breathe the fog thickens settling over the lawn and blankets great drifts of it rising until all that's left of the outside world is a faded charcoal imprint

she appears in flashes like something seen through a storm a swell of chestnut hair skin bleached the color of marble with eyes that are deep in black. The whites long since drowned. She carries the stuffed beer you won for her at the spring carnival. Love worn with one eye missing and the fur patched over in spots. Your daughter nears the window and sets her hand upon it, and you reach out with yours. The pads of your fingertips trembling as you press them over hers. She's beautiful.

A vision in the lace dress you buried her in, cream-colored and embroidered with lilacs, her favorite flower. Your eyes burn over every feature, her slender nose and the perfectly curved eyebrows, her delicate cheekbones. Below, nestled in the cup of her collarbone, you glimpsed the moon-shaped scar from the playground accident

that sent her wailing into your arms when she was five. Her breath brushing warm against your chest as you stroked her hair. She mouths something through the glass. Her lips forming a perfect blue circle. It's a word you know by heart. You nearly cry out because you want this moment to last forever. A lifetime. But you know it can't.

You know where it comes next. She presses her other hand to the glass. Her black mirror eyes beg you to respond. to rush outside and fold her into your arms and tell her that you're here, that you're always right here. And you've tried, thrashing against doorknobs that won't turn, screaming her name as you scratch the wood bloody, and the windows like concrete,

your knuckles raw and bleeding as you hammer your fists into them over and over and over again. It doesn't matter. Nothing works. Nothing ever does. all you have is this moment, this brief precious moment. Here, now, once a year, looking through the glass. Your daughter's face splinters into a mask of pain, and a sob you didn't know was building climbs your throat.

Hot tears bleed down your cheeks as the first few threads of her hair unwinded and float into the mist like fragile strands of spider silk. Then more of it comes loose. Dark chunks raining down just as they did with the chemo. Her skin pales and tightens around her skull, like a sheet of cellophane. And you want to look away, need to look away. But you can't. You never do.

She's your soul. And you live and die for this night. Every single moment. So dark. A rash breaks over her cheeks, veins spilling down her arms in little blue rivers, and the dam behind your eyes bursts. You rest your forehead against the window pain with great heaving sobs, your heart scraping your chest as your daughter dissolves bit by awful bit.

First her skin as it flakes to ash, then her muscles, her bones, everything rising into the haze. Until all that's left of her is the delicate set of fingerprints she's left on the glass. Tears patter off the window sill. Everything coming back into focus now as the fog recedes. Pulling back as if sucked into the lungs of some giant creature hidden in the ether, the memory of her slides through your brain like a ribbon of smoke. Your little girl.

Your life. Your hand is still on the window. still shaking and you pull it back and stare once more into the gathering darkness Jacko lanterns line the street in warm gold flickers the trees hanging above them like silent ghosts you wipe your eyes and after a moment

whisper what you whisper every Halloween the anniversary of the night you lost your daughter forever ten years earlier I will wait for you I will always wait for you. Halloween is a time when parties are thrown, salacious costumes are dawned, and people are looking for someone to go with to the parties.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Charlie Davenport, we meet a man who shares about how one woman, whom he met when very young, remains committed to being his special Halloween partner. Performing this tale are Danza Pula, Sarah Thomas, Kristen Di Macquario, Ellie Hirschman, Jesse Cornett, Mike Delgado, Nicole Doolin, Mary Murphy, Kyle Acres, Danielle McCrae, Peter Lewis, and Nicole Goodnight. So don't worry about being alone on Halloween. At least not if you have a date night.

It's almost that time of year again. Always gets me thinking about how we met. My teachers would call out my name at attendance, and I'd watch this confused look pass over their faces. Kids would pick teams for kickball, and their eyes just slid over me. Even the lunch lady looked uncertain as she plopped, creamed corn down onto my tray. It wasn't cruelty or clickishness. I was something new, and their ecosystem hadn't adjusted yet. As September and then most of October passed,

by, I was beginning to worry that it might never. I was lonely, particularly as Halloween approached. The costume parade was over and done with. A cavalcade of werewolves, vampires, and power rangers had finished tramping up and down the halls. Mrs. Morant had gathered up her class for a return to home room. I was the caboose, decked out in a bright orange turtleneck with triangular eyes and a jagged mouth hastily drawn on that morning with magic marker. I was spacing out, just breathing in the scent of old chalk dust when I first heard her voice. It stood out among the giggling, squeaky sneakers and the general steady murmur. Before I knew it, I'd pulled open the door to Mr. Ekman's class and wandered inside.

The place was a madhouse. The class had gathered into loose knots all around the the room, Mr. Ekman leading one of them in a game of pin the tail on the donkey. In another, I saw her. She was spinning. A tiny elf of a girl with a black head scarf wrapped around her head like a babushka, flaxen blonde hair spilling out from under it. If there were any rules to the game, I couldn't figure it out. Her hands were clasped out in front of her. Her arms ramrods straight as she world, her knuckles striking her classmates in the chest and drawing delighted giggles from them. I stepped into the circle just in time to feel her tiny hands thump against my breastbone. Her eyes flew open and winkled with unbridled delight as she cried out.

I'd barely spoken to anyone in that town, so the fact that a single soul knew my name was a genuine surprise. I stood there with my mouth open for a minute too long, drawing. a silver bell giggle from behind her flimsy red plastic mask, the horns bouncing in glee. She asked it gently, as though there was genuine concern, but I got the distinct feeling she was smirking at me behind that mask. Who are you? I finally managed to say. I don't know a Maggie. She purred at me, like a tiny, eartha kit. Uh-oh. Mr. Ekman called out for the class to rotate, and the assembled

throng scattered away to other parts of the room to plunk ping pong balls into fish bowls or bob for apples. I felt delicate little fingers close around mine. I looked right into a pair of pale blue eyes, gleaming behind the mask. Maggie pulled me over to the fish bowls. I should go. I'm supposed to be in Mrs. Morant's class. She laughed like this was the most ridiculous thing a person had ever said. No, you're not. It was said with such absolute confidence that I instantly had to agree. She called over to the Fishbowl kids.

And just like that, I was in. Kids that had passed by me in the halls that morning with no notice included me in every game, shared their candy with me, invited me over to play at their houses. Maybe I've had better days, but I can't name one of them. Maggie stood next to me the whole time, but for some reason, when she spoke, I nearly jumped out of my skin. What? Well, I, uh, yeah, I guess. I never... I said. She lunged forward and pressed her mask against my face.

I felt a pucker of plastic around lips and pinch so sharp that I thought she'd bitten me. I absolutely panicked. What do you mean? I can't... Oh, yes, you could. Wasn't to date fun, Ernie? Yeah, but I'm just... Wouldn't you like it to be this way all the time, Ernie? She sounded older than her years, though with her masks still on, I had no idea how old she was.

Yeah, but... Wouldn't you like to be part of the gang, Ernie? Right now, it's sleepovers and pool parties, but soon it'll be ski trips, days down at the shore, and sneaking into movies you shouldn't see. You don't want to miss out on all that, do you? You? Ski trips. My folks can't afford that.

Then there was that laugh again, blowing away any protest like dust against the breeze. Good, Ernie. All you have to do is say yes. Who are you? But... I need you to say it, Ernie. My answer was lost in the rattling ring of the old bell. The class dutifully gathered up their things and headed for the door.

Maggie slipped away into them as I stood still. Eventually, Mrs. Morant came by, realizing she was missing one little lamb from her flock, and I was swept back to her class for quiet reading. I arrived home that afternoon to find Mom already back home from work, with a bag from Caldor sitting at the dining room table in front of her. I felt bad, sweetie, about your costume, so I stopped and picked this up. You do still like Batman, right?

I absolutely loved Batman. I put it on immediately, and with a promise from Dad to take me out right after dinner, I spent the rest of the night searching our house for the Joker. We'd just finished eating when the doorbell rang. Dad answered it, but instead of a chorus of trick or treat, I ran to the door, and Jared Chardier was standing there, decked out as the Terminator,

with the half a dozen other kids. all waiting for me. At the back was Maggie, still wearing the mask, a sly finger laid across her plastic lips. Dad looked on as if this had all been expected. Get your bucket, kiddo. Your friends are here. We stayed out later that night than I ever had,

ranging far and wide in that old town that suddenly felt like home. As we pulled up back in front of my house, our buckets heavy with the generosity of our neighbors, I realized was just me and Maggie there. The group I seemingly now belonged to was nowhere to be seen, and even my dad was absent. Maggie was looking at me intently, and when she stepped towards me, I took a step back before I had time to think about it. Her eyes lit up a little at her own rhyme, as if it had surprised her. I started to speak, to ask questions, but about what I had no idea. She stopped me with a finger to my lips and leaned forward towards me.

For a second, I thought she was going to try and kiss me again, and I found my lips pulling inward. Instead, she leaned forward and whispered in my ear. My alarm clock's beeps were sharp and loud. I was waking up in my own bed, having fallen asleep, still wearing the shirt. shirt with the Batman emblem on it. I was going to be late for school. I fully expected the spell to be broken with the holiday come and gone. I thought my solitary existence was going to pick up right where it left off, but as I walked the halls of Bethlehem... What's up, E?

Hi, Ernie. I wanted to find Maggie and thank her, but it was only then that I realized I had no idea what she'd looked like. She'd never taken the mask off. All of my new friends simply stared back at me when I asked about her. Their brows crinkling in confusion or their faces going completely slack before picking up the conversation like I hadn't asked anything at all. It was almost anticlimactic when I finally caught Mr. Ekman in the halls. Maggie?

Oh, I haven't had a Maggie, a peg, a Meg, or a Margaret in my class of years. He shrugged. Sorry, Ernest. A year passed, a lifetime at that age, long enough for me to half forget about Maggie and half convince myself she hadn't been anything more than a late stage imaginary friend. Life was good then. Mom kept getting promoted at work and dad's stocks were paying out huge dividends. He even talked about buying a boat. My social calendar was filled with birthday parties, pick up basketball games, and as fall came around again. But we were,

Linda Miller's Halloween party. She delivered the news that Evie Kelly had asked if I was going, as though that wasn't the best thing that could ever happen to me. Mom was cool and dropped me off a block or so from the Miller House. I was wearing an old church suit, just half a size too small, fake ears and a name tag that said, hi, I'm Ross Perot as I rang the Miller's doorbell. Hello, Ernie. Oh, I just love your outfit.

Mrs. Miller winked at me conspiratorially. Don't tell Mr. Miller, but I voted for him. I promised her I wouldn't and asked where everyone else was. She told me they were out back, and, with a bright sheen of mischief in her eyes, told me that Evie Kelly was among them. Only my fake ears weren't beat red, as Belinda's mom left me to find my own way to the backyard. I'd only gone a step or two when the bell rang again. I stood there waiting for Mrs. Miller to reappear,

liking the idea of having someone to walk into the party with. But she didn't, and whoever was waiting out there grew real impatient, real fast. Dozens of sharp rasps of increasing intensity could be heard against the door. Forgetting everything Mom had told me about being a guest in someone else's house, I rushed over and threw open the door. There stood Maggie in a raggedy Ann costume, her bare chin hanging out from below her rubber half mask. How long were you planning on leaving me out there?

Maggie. The memories of the previous year flooded through me with an intense vibrancy that practically stung. I'm surprised. Obviously. It's supposed to be. I'm Ross. She slammed the door shut before I could finish. It was forceful enough that the pictures on the wall rattled.

And what part of Be Faithful Be True was hard to understand? What? Her face screwed up, trying to hold in some powerful emotion, and then she burst into tears. What do you see in Evie Kelly? I stood there for a while, convinced with the bang, the shouting on the sobs of a child that some adult would appear and deal with this, but none did.

Slowly, because I've never been very good when people cry, I reached my hand out to her shoulder. Maggie, I'm sorry? Her eyes flashed fire. Then she slapped me across the face. When my eyes cleared, she was gone, and I was standing alone in the Miller's mudroom. I wandered out back to the party, but I could already feel the change.

I got sidelong glances from kids I'd been high-fiving the day before. Evie Kelly, wearing a pair of cat ears as her only concession to the holiday, came up to me. It all kind of slid downhill from there. Mom got laid off just before Thanksgiving, and Dad's portfolio tanked hard. Pretty soon we lost the house. and we moved away. I don't think any of my friends even noticed I was gone. The last thing I recalled doing at Bethlehem Elementary is attending a memorial assembly for Evie Kelly. Her mom said she looked out the window and saw Evie standing at the bus stop, her backpack sitting on the

ground as she waited. When Mrs. Kelly looked out again, the backpack was still there, but Evie was gone. Some nights I still dream about that. that assembly. The auditorium filled with classmates whose names I can't remember and probably can't remember mine all turned around in their seats to look at me, all of them repeating in a chorus. Be faithful. Be true. That year set the pattern of my life. Mom's new, new job took us to Philly next. Things were rough for us then. Moving can bring out the worst in people. Add to that, the money troubles they were having, and I don't guess it was any surprise that my parents were fighting like cats and dogs all throughout the year.

We moved here for you. You know that, right? We are in this because of you, Candy. Oh, because you had so much going on. Got another hot stock tip for me, Craig? Crueler words than that passed between them on a nightly basis, sometimes right in front of me. Sometimes it seemed like even mom and dad. dad forgot I was there. I had resumed being a ghost to both adults and kids my own age.

Fall kind of snuck up on us, and when Halloween night arrived, we simply shut off our front light, drew the curtains, and went to bed. It was around 10 or 11. I was almost dozing when I heard scraping outside my window. In the glow thrown off by the streetlight, I watched the latch of my second-story window pop up. A pair of feet, then legs appeared through the opening. When they touched the floor, the rest of Maggie slid through. She was dressed as a circus clown or maybe a harlequin. She stared at me, the skin of her face chalk white from the grease paint, and her eyes, an Arctic blue, highlighted by the charcoal black that surrounded her eyes. She bowed to unheard a claws. It was the first time I'd seen her without a mask. I had to admit, she was beautiful in her

way. She cartwheeled over to my bed, landing smoothly, gracefully, and placed a single hand upon my chest. I hadn't moved or spoken during her whole performance, and when I felt her fingertips add just that bit of pressure, a tear rolled down my cheek. Happy Halloween, Ernie! Have we learned, darling? I nodded, and every Halloween after that, I spent with Maggie. Things improved. Mom found her footing at work, dad's portfolio turned around. When we had a going away party at our place, after Mom got her promotion, it was packed with my new friends. Life was good, as long as I was good, as long as I was faithful, as long as I was true, as long as Maggie was happy.

One year at a haunted house in Illinois, the bride of Frankenstein popped up from her operating table and threw her arms around me. She wailed that I would be her groom. Of course, it was Maggie, recognizable to me now, even under the green makeup and red stitches. Dad chuckled on the way home and called me Boris. Another year, I was T-Ping houses with what mom deemed the wrong crowd. A live girl in a cat suit and mask followed us all night, smashing pumpkins and mailboxes alike with a Louisville slugger. Your girl is cool, bro.

When I was 16, we snuck into the theater for a showing of hocus pocus. It had just started. The Sanderson sisters about to drop with the hangman's noose around their necks when I felt someone in the seat next to me wrapping their arms around mine. Before I could turn in her direction, correction, Maggie whispered in my ear all breathy and low. Those were the good years. The years Maggie was happy. The years I kept myself to myself. There were others, though, years when I'd slip. She drowned Camilla Delmonico in the bobbing for apples bucket at the carnival. We'd just been

passing notes in algebra class. Nobody even seemed to notice the girl dressed as a scared crow holding her head under the water. Dag got sideswiped on I-95 that night. There was my sophomore year at Wisconsin. I came out of a Yeager-infused haze and felt a co-ed nibbling on my neck. In a panic I slurred that I was spoken for when I felt a sharp and sudden shuddering against me. I jerked back to see Maggie there, zombie makeup slathered across her sullen face, a pale green hand planted on the drunk girl's shoulder.

The young woman's mouth sprang open wide, her muscles straining against her joints. Sudden sobriety and utter bewilderment were clear in her eyes. She began emptying the contents of her stomach out onto the floor and didn't stop even after the paramedics arrived. Alcohol poisoning, they said. I never even knew her name. That was the year mom was diagnosed.

diagnosed with skin cancer for the first time, and I swore off booze. Then I'd graduated, gotten a job, moved into my first real place, something about moving into a full adult phase of my life. I don't know, I felt a lifetime away from ghosts and goblins and phantom girlfriends. Still, as that familiar chill started to creep into the air, I pulled back from my work friends, and when they invited me out for a drink on some midweek Halloween night, I politely declined.

Instead, I caught the movie marathon on AMC. Tom Atkins was on my screen, screaming it had to be turned off when I heard a knock at my door. I didn't even get up off the couch as it slowly creaked open. Maggie glided into my living room. She was dressed in a diaphanous white gown, draped and cascaded around her figure.

When she smiled at me, I could see her canines ended in points. No, just staying in, being faithful, being true. Good boy. Then she held her arms out towards me. Well, don't people kiss their girlfriends anymore? Of course. Of course, of course, of course. We kissed, and the worst part was, after another year alone, I almost welcomed it.

She moaned contentedly before breaking the embrace. Now, I want to hear about your life. How's the new job? It's fine. Just fine? Not too tough. You're making friends, right? My phone rang on the table by the front door. Maggie wrinkled her nose just ever so slightly. I heard my phone unlock, and then a loud voice hollering to be heard over the mix of drunkenness

and thumping bass came out of the speaker. It's gonna do karaoke. Jan from work sounded drunk and rather happy. Ernie, how exciting! Who's that? It's Maggie, Jan. Nice to meet you. Maggie.

No, she's just a friend. What are you? Jan never finished her question. Maggie did not break eye contact with me as she held her palm up and slowly closed it into a fist. Jan, somewhere in the city, began screaming and then gurgling. I thought Jan was in Chicago at a sales conference. She must have gotten back just in time for the office outing. Wasn't that lucky.

We're just friends! I screamed as I ran out of there, grabbing my phone as I went. Maggie shrieked at me as I fled, the words following me down the hall. I was dialing mom's number as I ran down the street with no direction in mind. You've reached Candace Cooper. I can't make it to the phone right now, but if you leave your name, number, and the reason for your call, I'll get back to you as soon as I can. The beep came, and my beep came, and my beep came. My words rushed out in a single unbroken stream.

Mom, grab Dad, get in the car, and go. Just get out of town. Wait, wait, wait, no, no, no. Lock the doors. Stay inside and lock the doors. I'll explain later. Call me back. I dialed my father next.

There were three long rings before the groggy voice of the man who taught me how to ride a bike came on. Dad, oh, thank God. Are you all right? Where's mom? She's right here next to me, you know. The irritation in his voice was clear and familiar. Was that you who just called?

Ernie, we both have to work in the morning, you know? Dad, just listen. What? Hold on. She wants to talk to you. Dad, no, no, no, no, no, no. Just listen to me. Mom came on the phone, sounding as tired as dad.

I'm sorry I missed your call, honey. It's fine, Mom. We were just so sleepy. It's fine, Mom. I suppose that's what you get with a gas leak. I said it's fine, Mom. Wait, what did you say? A gas leak, Ernie.

Your father was trying to fix the stove, and it doesn't look like he did a very good job. I stopped dead. The crowds of Halloween revelers flowing around me like river water around a solitary stone. I heard Dad's voice, still sounding as though he'd just woken up.

Lefty loose. see, kiddo. Don't worry. They didn't feel a thing. I'm not cruel after all. Why did you do this? Well, now, maybe you won't be chasing other women, Ernie. I didn't do anything.

They didn't do anything! Look, Ernie, I don't want to argue with you. It'll spoil our evening. Spoil our evening! Years of being knocked around at her whims, of being alone, of being afraid that she could take away anything at any time. All came out at once. I will kill you!

No one on the street even turned in my direction. There was such pity in her voice. The kind you'd have for a child that still believed babies were found under cabbage leaves. I will. I will find a way. Each word heaved its way up out of my chest. There's always next year. Then she hung up.

That was last year, Dr. McPhee. Call me Jim, please. Right, Jim. She's always been jealous, but Jan was literally someone I talked to a few times, and she took my... Everything from me. Well, Doc... Sorry, Jim.

I'm getting awfully tired of it, so... So I decided I can't be here much longer. Now, Ernie, if you're considering... No, no, no, no, no. Not like that. I'm going to run. Get as far away as I can. That is, I'm going to try if Maggie will let me.

Ernie, what do you mean? Leave. We've talked about this. There is no Maggie. Then what harm can there be? And then maybe Belinda will be safe. Who? Oh, that's right. I never told you about Belinda. It was the next day, and I'd been up all night, on the phone to the police, and after they found my parents booking flights back there to identify them.

I hadn't slept, so I went to get some coffee at the place down the street. The idea of making my own just seemed impossible. So I was standing in line, not taking anything in, when I felt a little tap on my shirt. shoulder. You have to understand that after Maggie visits, the ones that go badly, the people I've left behind, they just don't recognize me or remember me even. So there I was, exhausted and caught flat-footed by this stranger. But then, she asked if I'd been back home recently. The last time I saw you was at my Halloween party, maybe. Wait, you are Ernie Cooper, right? Belinda Miller?

The name just slid out of my mouth, as though I'd been waiting years to say it. Yep, how are you, Ernie? How are your folks? And I burst out crying. Ernie, oh God, what's wrong? She was kind to me. We sat in that coffee shop for hours, and I poured my heart out to her. It all kind of came out in a rush, and I almost told her about Maggie. I didn't, because whatever you might think about,

about me. I know how this all sounds. She was the one who recommended I talk to a professional. Then she grabbed a napkin from the table and jotted something down. I thought it was going to be a recommendation for a shrink. Sorry, psychiatrist. But there was her number, with a little note telling me to call whenever I needed to. She sounds great. This from the man I paid $750 an hour to, who insisted I still call him Jim. Still, I couldn't disagree. Ernie, you're a man who's experienced an unbelievable loss. I think the strain has you rewriting history,

assigning blame for this need to keep yourself apart to this mythical Maggie. Doc, like I said, I know how this sounds. I ran my fingers through my hair. Most of the year, I might even agree with you. I can just about convince myself when it's summer, winter, but when the leaves start to change and you can see Halloween candy in every store, I know she's coming, and I know I have to get as far away from Belinda as I can.

He placed his pen between his teeth and seemed to contemplate something for a moment. When Maggie throws these tantrums, it's always on Halloween, right? I nodded. And these young women, they... I've always reached out to you on that night, made contact in some way. I nodded again. And you don't see her any other time of the year, right? Right. I agreed. Exhaustion keeping me from seeing where he was going with this.

So, do me a favor, yeah? Stay away from Belinda. Get out of town. Don't tell her where you're going. Don't even take her calls. I have to be honest, Doc. I don't see how this is much different from my plan. Just for Halloween night. If you both make it through to morning, I suspect that's the last you'll hear from Maggie. The light bulb popped on over my head.

The idea was so simple and... That... That could work. Wait. I didn't think you believed in Maggie. I don't. He capped his pen as he said it, his eyes drifting to the clock above my head.

I think you've set up this complex belief system, almost a yearly worship. And if you can break the habit just once, it might just sap the power it has over you. Airbnb described the cabin as, the ultimate rustic getaway, no internet, no phone service, just unplug from the world. I checked, too. No bars. But I left my phone off just in. case. I told Belinda that with the anniversary, I just couldn't handle Halloween this year.

She was worried, but I told her I needed to clear my head and finally process what had happened. She wished me the best and told me she'd be thinking of me. I really hoped, for her sake, that wasn't true. I threw some old Halloween classics into my bag. The cabin had a DVD player, and I stopped at a grocery store on the way out there and picked up a pumpkin. Maggie would be expecting something festive for our date night after all. I'd barely finished that thought when I heard a knock, a single knock, against the cabin door. Before I could stop it, speak of the devil flashed through my mind. I opened the door with my best brand of false cheer.

Happy Halloween, Maggie. Happy Halloween, darling. Darling, said like someone from another, another era, which I supposed was probably the case. She stood there at the door, looking thoroughly normal. Her only nod to a costume was a headband with flashing devil horns. You could almost forget what she was, what she'd done. A tickle of rage licked at the bottom of my stomach, and it took everything I had to shove it down.

I leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. Come in! The popcorn is almost ready and a double bill of... Halloween 3 and hocus pocus is all cued up? We curled up on the couch and I pressed play. She snuggled her head against my chest and occasionally opened her mouth slightly for me to feed her popcorn, one piece at a time. My skin was crawling the whole time. This is exactly what we needed.

Absolutely. She lifted her head to look at me and our noses were almost touching. Is all forgiven? A look of what seemed to be genuine vulnerability etched her delicate features. Forgiven, honey? It was all I could think to say. Just a few more hours, and maybe, just maybe. Don't. I was afraid I'd gone too far, but you know how I get. I know. It was my fault, after all.

If she saw my knuckles turning white as I squeezed my fingers against my knee, She didn't mention it. Well... She cocked an eyebrow. What about you, Ernie? Have you been a good boy this year? I've learned my lesson. Then she laughed and threw her arms around my neck.

I'm! We stayed that way for the rest of the night. And despite myself, I found my eyelids dropping down just as the morning light was turning the Sanderson sisters to stone. Maggie stirred next to me. wriggling her back against my chest. The DVD player blinked 12 at me, and so I pulled the phone out of my pocket. As the screen began to glow, I realized what I'd done and furiously pressed the power button,

trying to avert catastrophe. Maggie's hand closed around mine and turned the screen towards her. She looked up from it with a grim expression. Got to go. So soon? I asked, praying I did. didn't sound as shaky as I felt. She got up, stretching like a cat, before gathering her things.

You know how it goes, darling. Then she leaned down and planted a tender kiss above my eye. Then there was a ding, and I looked down at the phone in my hand. A single bar of service. The message Belinda had sent hours ago popped up on my screen. I know I promised, but about to meet up with the girls. thought you might like to see the outfit. Signed with a winking emoji.

Be faithful, be true. Another ding and Belinda's bathroom selfie, duck lips and all, appeared. Her pointy witch's hat rested adorably on top of her chestnut curls. Something Maggie had said to me in that Missouri theater came back to me. They never burned them,

at least here, anyway. There was a crack in the air, like a twig someone on a midnight stroll had casually stepped on, a sound that would have been small except for the emptiness it had to fill. And with it came the curious scent of wood smoke. I looked up and Maggie was standing halfway out the door. Her hand raised and I swear could see the blood rushing back into her fingertips from where she'd snapped them together. Same time next. Then the spot where she'd been

was suddenly and conspicuously empty, leaving me alone in the dark early hours of the new November. All alone until next year. If there's one Halloween tradition that brings me melancholy and infinite sadness,

it's the act of smashing pumpkins, All that carving and artistry goes into creating those beautiful jackal lanterns, and then some punk kids come along and smash them. Punks, like those in this tale, shared with us by author C.B. Jones, except they're now adults with kids of their own, and perhaps it's time to face up to their past. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Erica Sanderson, Matthew Bradford, Mike Delgado, Lindsay Russo, Peter Lewis,

and Danielle McCray. So prepare yourself for the tale about the Great Pumpkin Massacre. Nathan asks through the screen door as I stand out on the front porch, surveying the aftermath from the night before. The pale guts of smashed jackalantrons are strewn out in the yellow grass. Orange chunks and white seeds litter the street. No, buddy. See?

I hoist up an intact pumpkin. Good. The rest sit comfortably on the swinging bench that hangs on our porch, waiting to be carved. They've been spared whatever teenage mischief occurred here last night. I'm glad we lucked out this time because my wife, Teresa, has grand plans for a family night of carving. I'd hate for that to be ruined. She's bought all these carving kits where you can make these really ornate and detailed designs. Skeletons with all 206 bones, jack-lantern faces expressing every human emotion possible,

black cat faces with visible whiskers, and replicas of real-life giant haunted castles. Nathan, our youngest, will only get to watch. His tiny hands aren't coordinated enough to work the little saw and punch out the pattern. Plus, it's a sharp object, and the blood of a four-year-old probably won't look too good on the design I've got picked out. This year, I've picked out the obligatory pirate skull face, complete with eye patch, bandana, and earring. I'm not sure what pattern Teresa has picked out, but I'm sure that it will be the most difficult pattern in the box. She enjoys the challenge. We'll no doubt be grinding away at that pumpkin skin canvas long after Nathan and I are done.

Sheridan, the teenager that happens to reside in our house, will most likely abstain from the festivity. She's no doubt got better and more important things to do. Hell, I'm not so sure it wasn't her boyfriend and his buddies that were responsible for the massacre outside. Maybe our pumpkins were spared because of who we are, safe by association. Did you see or hear anything last night? Just a pumpkin, man. He was in the trees. Oh.

Even for a four-year-old, Nathan has quite a little. the imagination, prone to nightmares and strange dreams. The bizarre things he says at times has me googling child psychiatrists and whether or not schizophrenia can manifest in kids his age. He had four elbows. Four elbows? Wow. I bet he was pretty funny with all those funny bones.

He wasn't, Daddy. Not funny at all. Scary. Can I have a Pop-Tart? Sure, bud. What the fuck? I think to myself, making my way back inside. Life's funny this way.

Once I roamed neighborhoods just like this, getting into mischief and mayhem like the young ruffians who had slaughtered the pumpkins the night before, me and my buddies reigned terror upon middle-class suburbanites, who had bought the seasonal squash for festive display. Never in a million years did I envision, vision the shoe being on the other foot, that I would one day be the middle-class square, fearing for the safety of my own pumpkins.

My friends and I had always dabbled in our share of egg-throwing and such, but we never pulled off something as monumental as what we were about to on that fateful Halloween night. When it was all said and done, it would forever be known as the Great Pumpkin Massacre. Blake had just turned 16 and the territory of our mischief expanded. His pickup truck was a better mode of transportation than a bicycle. It served as our getaway vehicle and also as a tool to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting denizens of our small town. We planned to hit up a subdivision that was nestled in the hills just outside of downtown. It was somewhat isolated and had many exits and entrances.

It was Halloween night. We justified our impending prank by the fact that pumpkins would be tossed the following morning anyways. Our methods of destruction were ruthlessly creative. It's a wonder that no houses burned down that night, as Jesse carried a small bottle of lighter fluid at his side and would give a hefty squirt into lit pumpkins. We rolled some down hills, chucked others on roofs, and many more were crushed under our thoughtless boot heels. But for the vast majority of the pumpkins, we had much more sinister things in store.

Dozens were taken captive and held hostage in the back of Blake's truck, awaiting a bleak fate. They only needed to be joined by their fearless leader before being advanced to the next stage. The great pumpkin sat magnificently displayed on an elderly couple's front porch. I don't know where they had obtained a pumpkin so big, but it must have won some blue ribbons at the county fair in its day. A spotlight shone on it as it sat upon a throne made of hay bales in front of a giant picture window. Cinderella only wished that she could have ridden in a carriage as big as this thing.

Blake sat in his idling truck a few houses down, waiting to pick us up. Jesse and I crept through the shadows, spying the old couple through their picture window as they sat and watched TV. On an adrenaline-fueled count of three, we dashed towards the pumpkin, got on either side of it, and lifted. Oh, it was a heavy bastard. There was no way one of us could have carried it alone. We were in the lawn, sidestepping to the truck with the pumpkin in between us like a wounded comrade. when the front door opened. Blake's headlights appeared as the old man shouted behind us,

scaring us like enemy gunfire. We heaved the great pumpkin into the back of the truck and followed suit. We laughed like demons into the night, the old man's shouts chasing after us as we sped away. They didn't stop there, but it was about to. All of our pillaging and plundering would culminate into one final cruel and me. mischievous act. We hit the backroads for a while, laying low and waiting for the cops to leave the neighborhood and for the residents to go back to sleep. A large hill overlooked a high school football

field, and Jesse had somehow managed to stash a homemade catapult in the bushes. How he pulled this off? I'll never know. We spend an hour or two launching pumpkins onto the football field below. Blake played the song 1979 on repeat A song by the oh-so-apropo titled band Smashing Pumpkins Blake, our resident Pyro, had graduated from black cats in M-80s

to gunpowder, gasoline, and a new type of product called tannerite. He drilled a hole in the giant pumpkin and loaded it with explosives. One would only have to fire a gun at the thing and the bullet would serve as a detonator of the tannerite. A chain reaction would occur, and the pumpkin would explode,

reining its guts down over everything. The exploding pumpkin was the grand finale. We hefted that thing onto the 50-yard line, the splattered carcasses of its brethren scattered all around. We asked if it had any last requests. It didn't respond. Jesse was in the bed of the truck with a night scope and a 30-ought-6. We were 300 yards away, give or take.

There was the blast of the single shot of the rifle that bled into the much louder explosion of the giant pumpkin, a deafening kaboom! That reverberated off the bleachers and stadium and echoed through the sleeping town in a way we could never have anticipated. The front page of the town's newspapers detailed the outcome of our exploits. Scores of pissed off town folk. A crater in the middle of the football field in a relocation of the next game to the junior high field. Humpkin guts that were found a mile away. As for us, we were never caught.

At least not in any substantial way. Weeks down the road, we all received an anonymous letter in the mail. It simply read, He knows what you did, and he will return. He seeks payment in blood. We all presumed that the old guy had gotten our plates and somehow figured out who we all were. At the time, we thought it was an empty threat.

Why hadn't he gone to the cops? Why send us letters? We anxiously waited for something to have. happen. But no more letters came. No more vague threats. Blake thought he had it figured out. He was clearly talking about Jesus. He wants us to confess and truly repent. That stuff in there about the blood had to be the blood of Christ. Jesse chuckled. Looks like we got away with it, boys. I'll throw a few extra bucks in the offering plate this Sunday for good measure. But what if he's not talking about Jesus? I remembered asking.

What if it's someone else? All of that happened over two decades ago, and I've since moved far from the hometown of my youth, never looking back. I took a scholarship to a university out east where I got wrapped up in school and would meet the woman that would become my first wife. I don't keep up with Blake or Jesse either. It's been about two decades. Yeah, I guess I'm one of those friends.

There was something that had happened, our scene. senior year, some falling out that I can barely recall, a rift involving jealousy and girlfriends, but I can't even remember whose. I don't have their phone numbers, and I'm not one for social media either. So as the years pass, I don't really have a means of touching base with them, with the ease of typing in their names. Besides, I don't really feel the urge to go back or call. Life moves on. I'm on my second, marriage. Teresa, who I mentioned before. I have a toddler of my own and a stepdaughter and piles of leaves in the front lawn and pumpkins on the porch. Things are good now. There's no sense in looking back. I'm drinking a spat in October fest and pretending to tend at the yard. Mostly it's

an excuse to be outside and drink beer. Nathan is running around in his ninja costume, jumping in my piles. He's been putting a lot of miles on that costume, the one he's chosen for Halloween. We've definitely gotten our money's worth this year. A strong wind blows leaves down onto our heads and carries with it an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. The air is crisp and there's that smell of something burning off in the distance.

The alcohol fuzzies my brain and that sentimental feeling fills my gut with a deep sense of yearning for things from my past. I pull my phone up and navigate to the Google search bar. My finger hovers over the keyboard. Blake and Jesse's names beg to be typed down. What I find next brings me to my knees, right there in the yard. The beer I'm holding spills out onto the grass

and I choke out a mangled cry. A sledgehammer sensation to my bed. balls and gut. The date for the headline was November 1st. It occurred on Halloween. Ten years ago. Two men perish in cabin fire at local hunting lease. Jesse Stevenson and Blake Phelps. Two of my best friends from way back when, and I didn't even know they were gone. For ten years, I went on oblivion. For ten years, I was none the wiser. For ten years, I didn't even know I had to grieve.

What does somebody do in a situation like this? It's been ten years, and I didn't even know. I'm sitting with Teresa on the steps of our front porch. Nate's asleep inside, and we're on guard duty, more or less, protecting our pumpkins. I drain the beer that's in my hand and reach for another. Teresa blocks my hand, and my first instinct is to get a little pissed. But she's right. She usually is.

I don't need another. Growing up in a small town like that, I don't know what it's like. I don't really keep in touch with my high school friends except for Facebook here and there. But it's a big chapter of your life. It's understandable it would mess you up to hear, even if it's been, 10 years, even if you didn't keep in touch. For you, it just happened. Didn't need anything, besides more October Fest, that is? Nah, just a little time. Isn't your 20-year reunion coming up? You've always been weird about your past and your hometown. Maybe you should go, confront some demons,

get closure. Look, I don't have some deep, dark secret, just a prank that we maybe She took too far. There's no demons. She shrugs, pats me on the shoulder, kisses my cheek, and goes back inside, taking the remainder of the six-back with her. There's no demons. I say to the empty night around me, to myself. Long time, no see.

I suppose this is a double meaning because Jesse's eyes, they're literally gone, just empty black black sockets where his baby blues used to be. I have to be dreaming. There's no other explanation. I can remember going inside from the porch and getting ready for bed, but now I'm outside in the woods somewhere. He relaxes in a camping chair across from me. It's late evening, not quite dark. A hundred feet away, there's a cabin. Yeah, man, what you've been up to? Too good to keep in touch? Blake's tending to a charcoal grill, a can of beer in his hand. His eyes.

They're normal. I... I just got busy. Life got in the way. You know how it goes? No, I don't know how it goes. I guess when you run away and never touch base with your best friends, your priorities get all out of whack. Yeah, man, what the fuck?

I was thinking about getting on social media soon. And checking in, you know, whatever. Blake takes a long pull from his beer, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows and swallows. Slowly, the piss-colored liquid that he just chugged leaks and dribbles out the bottom of his camo hunting jacket. He crushes the can in his hand, tosses it. Jesse blindly scans me with his hollow eyes, smiles.

He flicks open a pocket. pocket knife, and I tense up. The vibe has started to go all wrong here. I need to leave, to run far away. He places the blade in his mouth and starts prying it around in there. I can hear blade against enamel. My gums burn and my jaw aches just watching him. He spits out a tooth. It's his front one. There's a gap in his bloody mouth. He does one on the bottom. and then another on the other side. Jesus, fuck! Jesse and Blake both cackle with my reaction.

Hey, Blake, I might need some help with this one. Jesse's speech is all mushy, blood running out of his mouth. He takes the knife and points the tip at the crown of his skull. He grips the handle with both hands and thrusts downward, meeting resistance. There's a soft thud as it buries into the initial topsoil of his hair and scalp. But now I'm screaming and running and everything goes black. In an instant, I'm out in the dark woods all alone. I can see the glow of the cabin off in the distance.

It's full-on nighttime now. I make my way towards the light. On the front stoop of the cabin's front entrance, I can make out flickers of can. I see glowing faces leering at me from afar. Jackalantons. One is much bigger than the other. The skin is orange.

Spray paint cans litter the ground. There are two triangles punched out of what I can only assume is Blake's chest, right where his nipples would be. A smaller triangle makes a nose right below his sternum, and there is a jagged grin carved into his abdomen. Flames dance from somewhere within his body cavity. Jesse's head is shaved and his face is painted orange. His eyes are still hollow and his nose is gone.

The knife is buried to the hilt at the top of his head. A stem. His punched out sockets glow candlelight and his jaw is propped open while the spotlight of his now crooked grin dances across the ground. Both of their remains burst into flame and topple against the side of the cabin. And because this is a dream with its own logic, the cabin bursts into flames too. My scream is paralyzed at my throat, and I awake, gasping for air, jerking and tangled in the sheets. Teresa rolls over half asleep and clings to me, and I cling to her like a life preserver.

I slowly acclimate to reality my body wide awake until the morning. The next morning I returned to the article regarding Blake and Jesse's deaths to see if there's any mention of mutilation or signs of foul play. It doesn't report the state of their bodies, but I imagine that the firelight. Like that, there's not a lot of information that can be determined. Yet the article does report an unnerving fact, that authorities are investigating the cause of the fire, and whether or not the spray paint cans found at the scene were used as an accelerant.

I can remember that letter from all those years ago. He knows what you did, and he will return. Did he do this to Blake and Jesse? Or is it all just a coincidence? I can't shake the feeling. The feeling that this happened 10 years ago. On Halloween, 10 years from the Great Pumpkin Massacre. The feeling that maybe this happens in cycles.

In 10-year cycles. The feeling that my luck has run dry. And my number is up. The feeling that I'm next. It's the night before Halloween, and we're hanging out in the living room, one big happy family. Later, we'll get into the pumpkin carving,

but right now we're constructing treat bags for trick-or-treaters. It is nice. It's fun. It's October as fuck, both inside and out. There are little orange Christmas lights over the threshold of the doorway. Little decorations throughout the house.

Outside, a chilly wind blows and dead leaves skitter across the driveway. Nathan's in his ninja costume again. On TV, the Charlie Brown Holiday Special is on. Nathan and I get our pumpkin prepared. He taps out after about five minutes, freaks out about the texture of the stringy gourd guts. I get the inside good and scraped and begin to punch out the design of our pirate skull. Teresa's working away in her own world, meticulous as hell.

I watch her brow furrow and the facial expressions she makes as she rolls the pumpkin around in her lap to get the right angles. Seeing how seriously she takes this makes me all warm inside. And for the moment, I'm able to push back all irrational and paranoid thoughts regarding pumpkin-based revenge. I get up and make my way towards the kitchen in some sort of autopilot maneuver. I open the fridge and there's still a six or a beer in there. I contemplate opening one, and then I hear a scream from the living room,

a crackling wail of a four-year-old. Oh, no! I rush into a scene of Teresa crouched down by a crying Nathan. There's an overturned pumpkin, blood smeared down its side. There's a bloody little jigsaw tool on the floor. I grab some damp paper towels and wipe Nathan's hand down. track down the source of the bleeding. On the tip of his index finger is a pretty good little cut,

flap of skin spread open. Does he need stitches? Nah, we'll just wrap it up real tight. He'll be good as new. Are you sure? It's a lot of blood and still bleeding. Be more stressful on him to go out there. Okay.

Nathan is sniffling in her lap with his hand outstretched, wrapped in a wad of bloody paper towels. And she's right, it is a lot of blood. It's all down the front of the pumpkin and soaked into the cut edges of the design. But after wrapping his finger with the gauze, he's bouncing around the house again. We even give him an advance on some Halloween candy on account of the trauma. He passes out on the couch and a pile of rappers, TV playing. Charlie Brown again.

There are three things I have learned never to discuss with people. religion, politics, and the great pumpkin, Linus says, and winks at me. It's nighttime, and we're in bed drifting off when it hits me. I've left the pumpkins on the porch. We'd given them a test run with candles and everything. I need to go blow them out and bring them inside lest our hard work falls to the smashed pavement fate

at the hands of the pranksters that have already visited our street once this season. I lumber down the hall grogly. The house is quiet. I make a mental note to make sure Sheridan's home. She normally lets us know when she's back. What time is it, anyhow? My contacts are out, and I don't have my glasses on. Everything's a blur.

I squint at the clock that hangs in the living room. A little after midnight. She should be home by now. Maybe Teresa pushed her curfew back a little bit on the count of the holiday weekend. I step out onto the porch. The pumpkins are still out there, safe and sound, candles smouldering. From the street, I can hear a couple of footsteps, crunching leaves, and the rifle shot crack of an acorn popping under someone's foot on the pavement. I look out there, and of course I can't see shit. Everything's just a smear of grays and browns

and shadows. There's a pair of my glasses in the car that I keep in the sunglasses holder. I reach back in the doorway and for the key rack, hit the unlock button on my fob. I move our pumpkins closer to the door, blow out the candles, and step towards my car. With the vision I have, I have to accept that if I'd been born in the caveman times, I likely wouldn't have lasted long. The difference between my corrected vision is stark. I can see our hedges perfectly. The big oak tree in our front yard with its leaves half shed.

A streetlight provides just enough illumination for me to see someone or something step into my yard and crouch down behind the hedges. Whoever they were, they seemed tall. My pulse quickens. Just go back inside. Can I help you? Like a shark's dorsal fin cresting the waves, a shadow slowly rises over the border of the hedges. It's in the shape of a hat, a fedora or something. It keeps rising, and the head that is wearing it is massive and disorienting.

Yet the figure keeps rising and rising as it stands. Taller, taller, taller. It makes its way through the gap in the hedges, the gap that is supposed to be a sort of welcoming entry into our yard. except this thing isn't welcome. This thing with its bulky body and giant head. This thing that I'm not waiting around to meet. I stagger back and turn to run back inside.

My heel catches on a loose paving stone and I'm falling down hard, landing right on my ass. I can feel the impact on my teeth. It's two kids in a trench coat, one on the other's shoulders to make it seem like they're really, just one tall person. You know, that old trick to sneak into the movies? That's what it's got to be. Nobody's that tall normally. The shoulder rider is wearing a pumpkin on their head. A pumpkin with a fedora, mind you. And there are narrow vertical slits carved for eyes, a bunch of smaller

slits in a row where the mouth should be. Sheridan? Sheridan's friends or whatever. Y'all got me good, okay. Enough though. I've really busted my ass here. The figure doesn't respond. I'm rolling onto my knees and leaping to my feet, scrambling for the front door. Standing on the front porch is a smaller figure, waist high, clad and black. Get back in the house. My voice cracks the way no grown man's ever should. Nathan, he turns around to open the door, but he can't. The knob rattled in his hand in a futile effort. The door that I had left ajar as I came out here, he had shut behind him, the thumb lock still engaged.

I reach and grab him under the arms, turn back down the porch, and the figure is right on us. Run to the back door, I say as I set him down. He scampers off into the dark, a shadow disappearing into shadows. There's a blow in the small of my back, and I'm sent flying forwards. A searing pain lights up my wrists as I catch myself on the ground. I roll under my back, and the thing takes its time slowly walking towards me. The sinewy legs sprout below the edge of the tan trench coat.

They end in some type of feet, the size of snow shoes, feet with three large toes. The fedora is off its pumpkin head. It raises its long arms. Arms that hang well past its knees. It yanks off the coat with ease, and there's a glowing ember in the center of a thick and gnarled chest, pulsing with a fiery heartbeat. Long fingers beckoned for me to come,

and at this point I'm scooting back on my ass, trying to get away. The fingers are dark and thin, and it looks like there's only four of them. They curl up into themselves with ease, flexible in a way that no human fingers are. The thing raises one of its python long arms, an arm that bends in an impossible way, a waving way that could only be feasible with an extra joint.

He had four elbows. I'm well within its reach at this point, and I've been so terrified that screaming for help hasn't occurred to me. And it doesn't seem like a good idea right now, I just don't want my wife to come and become collateral damage. I get the feeling that when I'm gone, this will be over for everyone else. I'm the only guilty party. With those sharp, pointy fingers and limbs with the mobility of a bullwip,

it's only a matter of time before it disembowels me with one quick swipe. Bunkin thing is really close now. There's a movement out of the corner of my eye, A little hand that places smooth aluminum into my own darts back into the shadows. Little shit was supposed to be inside by now. Still, now I have a fighting chance. The ninja has given me one of Sheridan's softball bats. A weapon.

I leap to my feet and swing the bat. It's like aiming for a pinata that's hung too high, but I managed to make contact. And the pumpkin caves and busts under my blow. The deflated and cracked sphere hangs loosely off the neck. I swing again before I can react, the metal of the bat clanging with the thing underneath the pumpkin. I barely see the movement of the long limb as it rakes its fingers across my face. Warm blood runs down my cheek and neck.

The remains of the pumpkin dropped to the ground, seeds and stringy pumpkin guts clinging to the head underneath. I used the term, head, loosely. The thing that the jackalandron was attached to is a round nubbin, like the part left on the shoulders of a Barbie or an action figure when the head is removed. This protuberance is the size of a coconut, sickly gray with a square mouth that looks like a sewer grate. The thing is still standing, undeterred by the loss of its jack-o-lantern mask, still coming. A viny hand wraps around the softball back.

Ganks it from my grip, and it clangs off the side of the house. Another hand snakes its way around my neck, impossibly longed fingers, writhing their way up into my nose and sticking into my mouth. I gag on the taste of soil and earth. I'm raised higher and higher. The hand a noose around my throat. I can't do anything.

Tugged forward with my airway constricted piss running down my leg. It raises me to look at its eyeless face, the grid-like teeth of its square mouth shivering. The grip on my throat loosens. Enough for an inhalation of that sweet, sweet oxygen. The thing's head swivels towards the noise. Oh, God. Nathan, what are you doing? Run!

For God's sake, run! I'm falling to the ground in a heap. And there's Nathan coming from the porch. The thing turns to him. Nathan, my sweet baby, my little ninja. I try to scream his name, but it's a horse gargle. He walks forward with a brave purpose. He comes bearing a gift.

He's holding out our jack-a-lantern, presenting it with both hands like it was an infant. The weight is almost too much for his shaky arms. arms. The pumpkin man, the great pumpkin, the jack-a-lantern-faced thing from hell, reaches towards my precious boy and I fear the worst. Instead of decapitating him, it accepts the gift, inspects it closely with its non-existent eyes. And then, without a word, without a gesture, It places our pumpkin onto its own head, puncturing the bottom with its bony protuberance, until it's wearing the thing up there like a new head.

Nathan's in my arms, and I'm crying and gasping in relief. The pumpkin monster turns to us, the new face somehow aglow, and gives us a little bow. A long arm folded across its body. Just like that. He's gone, walking down the street with a new pirate skull mug. Before I know it, there's headlights pulling up, car doors opening and shutting. What are y'all doing out here this late? Sheridan walks up.

Did I miss the memo or something? You definitely missed something. The first year after, I couldn't be sure. Was this going to be an... annual thing? I couldn't leave it to chance. Nathan and I, we carved a pumpkin, a simple triangle-eyed job. Then, I baptized the pumpkin with the blood of my firstborn. I didn't take as messy a route as the first time. We simply used a diabetic finger-pricker thing, a lancet, it's called, and poked his finger. We smeared his blood on the cut edges of the pumpkin, lit a candle,

and placed it on the front porch. The next morning, it was gone. A new Halloween tradition, born in its wake. In our final tale, we meet a man who not only loves Halloween, he goes positively mad for it. You know the kind, the ones that fill their yard with Halloween decorations, who want nothing more than the spirit of Halloween to be enjoyed by one and all. And in this tale, shared with us,

by author Sean Dermott Lehane. We learn that the man knows how important it is for children to experience the wonderful, safe, frights and scares of Halloween. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Graham Rowett, Kristen DiMacurio, Nicole Goodnight, and Mike Delgado. So remember, sometimes being afraid can be a good thing because of the safety in fear. My favorite holiday has always been Halloween. I know a lot of people don't consider it a holiday in the traditional sense.

Not like Christmas or Thanksgiving, sure. But growing up, it really was better than all those other ones. Dad would go all out, filling the yard with tombstones and plastic body parts, splash fake blood on the sidewalk and porch. But his crowning touch, the decoration he was always most proud of, were the nooses he would hang from the big maple tree in the yard. One for each of us. It made the neighborhood feel so spooky seeing that bare maple tree,

its leaves painting the ground as sickly red, orange, and brown, while four nooses swayed in the autumn breeze. On Halloween night itself, all the kids would come over with their parents. My mom and dad would entertain the adults in the haunted house mom had set up inside, while we kids would go off on our own to trick or treat from the unguarded baskets left on the porches. Then we'd end up in the park at the end of the road, divvying up our hall and playing on the swings and jungle bars until eventually our parents would call us home. Those were the days. My best memories.

After that, life got hard. My family is all gone now, and I've moved far away several times over. But every year, as soon as August rolls around, those memories flood back and get me excited for the season ahead. I recently moved into a new neighborhood, and wouldn't you know it, I was able to rent an old farmhouse at the end of a tree-lined residential street. It's a great neighborhood filled with families. I see them walking politely up and down the sidewalks, so well-dressed and behaved. The houses, too, on the street are really nice and taken care. I see the dads mowing the lawns and plucking weeds from their gardens almost every day.

I've tried to introduce myself, but most people just stick to themselves and they're perfect little houses. When the leaves started to fall in early September, everyone was out bagging them right away. I hope that maybe they were collecting them to stuff into scarecrow's, but sadly, every week the bags would be left with the trash. Such a waste. I decided I would pick up my family's tradition and bring all that fun back for the kids of the neighborhood. Halloween is a time for kids to feel fear, but know that they're safe. It helps them build character and resolve. The world is truly a frightening place. They're going to find out, and they're going to need all the strength they can get. I began to formulate my plans. I went online and spent...

way too much money ordering lawn decorations. In early September, I got to work decorating the front yard. I couldn't wait to hear the kids ooing and awing. They were going to be so excited for Halloween. And they wouldn't even know what I was arranging for them in my backyard. No. That would be the real surprise. Oh, this year, I was going to give them one they'd never forget.

Unfortunately, the first reaction I received was not what I was hoping for. It was the sound of the mailbox by my front door opening and clanking shut. I peeked out the blinds of my sitting room to see a thin, bald little man hurriedly rushing down the porch steps and half running across the road to his own yard, where his wife stood. Her arms folded angrily across her chest, a look of condemnation on her. face. I watched them exchange harsh words as they re-entered their own perfect little house. And that's when I saw a little boy in the window, staring, most likely, at the front lawn that already had a 20-foot skeleton set up with both its arms grasping a high branch above its head.

Did I intentionally direct its head to point directly at their house? I wondered. I saw the man pull the boy back from the window, and then I saw his beady face, thick mustache, and glasses briefly before he shut the curtains. God, he reminded me of my dad. I read the note he had left. Blah, blah, homeowners association, disrespectful to the neighborhood, blah, blah, safety of the children is our main concern, blah. It was basically the same note I've gotten repeatedly over the years when I've gone all

out to bring the joy of the season. But I wasn't going to let this setback send me into a negativity spiral, nor let it ruin my plans. I took a few calming breaths, turned the note over, and wrote my reply. Dearest neighbor from 297 Aldwich Crescent, thank you so much for your thoughtful note. It was so nice to hear from you. I believe we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. Clearly, my intentions have not been commuted. communicated effectively to you and your family.

I am in the process of building a safe, temporary play space for the children of the neighborhood to enjoy on Halloween night. Nothing more, nothing less. To this end, I would like to extend a special invitation to you, your wife, and your son to come and enjoy Halloween night. Additionally, for the adults of the neighborhood, there will be spooky cocktails served in my haunted parlor. This invitation is extended to all of the parents and grown-ups on our lovely street and the Homeowners Association.

I promise it will be a truly unique and memorable evening for all. Letter completed, I poured myself a drink and felt a great deal better. This was all a friendly misunderstanding that would be corrected with ease over a nice drink, some laughs, and the sounds of children enjoying their youth. I swallowed my drink in one gulp. I made a mental note to drop the letter into 297's mailbox later that night. In the meantime, I had doubled my resolve to finish the decorations. At last, October 31st came.

I sat on my porch in an old rocking chair. I decided I would dawn a flowing black cloak befitting the spooky season. Earnestly, I gazed down Aldwich Street. I was relieved to see that most house. houses did in fact have carved jack-o-lanterns out, but not much more than that in terms of festive decorations. Hours passed. The after-school rush of trick-or-treaters dried up as the sun set in the fall sky started to darken.

I watched as occasional gusts would scatter the leaves across the yard. They gathered at the basis of my various unused attractions. It was at this moment, looking at the wonderful decorations that seemed so sad for want of children playing with them, that I felt sad. I had really hoped that this town would be different, that the Halloween spirit could be revived here, that I could bring joy to at least one child. I was starting to lose all hope when I heard noises from down the street. I sat forward in my rocking chair and peered over the porch. A group of nine adults, and at least twice as many costume youngsters were marching down the sidewalk.

They weren't stopping at any of the houses they passed. Could this be? Could the party finally be coming? I heard one of the grown-ups shout out to the rest of his group. Yeah, this is it. Holy shit. Look at all this. I stood up tall, grasping tight my full bowl of assorted mini candy bars.

Come one and all. I declared as the varied assortment of pirates, superheroes, witches, princesses, and the like rushed into my yard, each wanting to get a close-up of the decorations. Ouse and Oz escaping their mouths. Hey there, man, we heard about your haunted kids garden and wanted to come check it out. This is amazing. The leader of the pack motioned around as the rest of the parents pulled together at the base of my porch, laughing and gawking. I beamed my first big smile of the night. Here were the kinds of parents, the kinds of neighbors I had been yearning to meet.

Oh, thank you very much, sir. It was the least I could do to help spread some holiday cheer. I held out my bowl as each parent rummaged about and came out with at least one candy. Kids bags are full up as it is, so don't mind us. A middle-aged woman wearing devil horns, but nothing else. particularly festive, gestured to herself, and then the leader. I'm Sarah. This here's Matt. She rhymed off a slew of other names, but I had stopped listening by then.

We're all from a couple streets over. You must all come in for a celebratory drink. I pushed open the front door, revealing rising smoke, candles burning, cobwebs, colored lights, and spooky music playing. I could see some interest as members of the group ducked around each other to catch a glimpse of the inside, but also hesitation as they kept switching their gaze back to the kids. Oh, I almost forgot. There's something much more magical for the children around back,

and my well-stocked parlor has large windows so we can all keep a watchful eye. Before the parents could protest further, I called out to get the youngsters' attention. Come around back for the main attraction. Come now, come now. As the kids bounded to their feet and began to run in that awkward way children run, the parents laughed, shrugged and followed along the side of the house towards the backyard. I gazed across the street to the disappointed neighbor's house to see the little boy standing right up against the window.

His hand pressed to the glass, desperation and envy in his face? I slowly waved and tried to say, It's too bad about your parents with my face. I was the last one to round the house. The group of parents and children were silent and unmoving, their mouths agape. Welcome to Uncle Jack's Premium Country Hay Bale Maize and Scavenger Hunt. I proclaimed, my arms spread out to show off the splendor of the two-acre maze I had spent every night in October building. Roughly six feet tall walls of hay lined with pumpkins carved as jackal anards.

Hundreds of them. A gasp of excitement escaped the children's mouths. I described how I had purchased the bales from the farmer who owns the land behind me and had him drop it off on the edge of the property so no one would see. The front yard was just a decoy, I explained. Here are the only rules. No climbing, no kicking. The pumpkins, they don't like that at all, and no getting lost.

Just kidding. That one's the whole point. The first one, to get to the middle, collect the special prize, and come all the way back out, wins. What do we win? I gave the adorable red-headed princess a wink. Everything your heart desires. The adults all clustered into the parlor, taking seats on the table. old corduroy couches and armchairs the past owners had left behind.

I went around behind the small 1970s bar in the corner and began ladling drinks from the large punch bowl I had set up. Now, this is a special festive drink. If anyone would like, you can take a lighter here from the bar and light up the top of the drink. I demonstrated with the last glass I poured, too much laughter and excitement from my guests. The concoction was obviously a hit as I heard many a Mmm, delicious, and wow, it's so sweet!

I smiled in appreciation. As I handed out the drinks, I gestured to the radio sitting on the coffee table in the middle of the room. It's a two-way set up in the middle of the maze, so we can hear and talk to the kids who get there. After everyone had had their drinks, someone caught my attention out back. And then I smiled the second biggest smile I had that night. My disappointed neighbor stood just beyond the glass, holding tightly his son's hand. I opened the back door to greet them. When did you build this?

The neighbor asked slowly, clearly overwhelmed by the sight. I looked down at his son, who was straining to get free of his father's grasp so he could join his friends in the maze. I gave him a gentle wave and a wink. Needless to say, the boy, Johnny, I came to learn, did get released by his father and quickly disappeared behind the first hay bale at the entrance. And the neighbor, whose name I learned was Steve, did join the other parents inside. He was actually quite a nice man. I learned that he was an architect, just like my father had been. So many similarities, I mused.

Everything was going to plan. After a while and a few more rounds of drinks for the guests, I gestured for everyone to take a seat and get comfortable. The children are getting quite close to finding the center. It's time for the traditional Halloween toast. Raise up your glasses. At which everyone did. Even Steve, the one-time disappointed neighbor,

was smiling with childlike joy. Thank you so much for coming and bringing your wonderful, eager children to enjoy my Halloween experience. I've always wanted to create the ultimate experience for young and old alike. Something you won't ever forget. I think I'm doing that tonight. Thank you all, and happy Halloween. The crowd started to calm down pretty quickly after that final toast. Sarah, who had been standing, became very wobbly and missed the sofa entirely, as she belly flopped onto the carpet moaning.

The two-way crackled and the distant girl's voice came through. Delighted, I weaved my way through the moaning, dying crowd and flipped on the microphone. Yes, it is. Who is this? The adorable princess with the bright red hair. I was glad it was her. Congratulations, Susie. You're in the lead. Now gather up your prize. It's in the big pumpkin in front of you. And hurry back. Your mommy's here and really wants to see you win. The handful of adults who still could moaned as loudly as possible, I imagine to warn the children. All your parents are going to cheer you on with ghostly, spooky and frightening words of you.

encouragement, I'm sure. Satisfied, I turned up the gain on the microphone and moved swiftly to the final stage of my plan. Going behind the bar again, I picked up the two jerry cans of gasoline I had concealed and started splashing the first one out on the dusty old rag, which was admittedly hard to do, as by now, three others had joined Sarah on the ground vomiting pathetically. The remainder of that can I tossed on the dry old curtains and wood-paneled walls. I smiled to myself. I knew this would be the perfect house the moment I saw how run down it was.

Steve had been the last to drink, so he had the most energy left, I reasoned. He was sprawled across the old sofa, his head thrown back. I ignored his pointless question as an epiphany of inspiration took over my whole being. I popped open the second can and fitted a yellow spout to it. I forced the spout into his mouth and began tipping it over gently and slowly. He gurgled, and his hands and feet twitched. But I was careful not to drown him as I eased the spout from his mouth. I took out an old zippo from my pocket.

It had been my father's. He used it to light all the dothes. jackalterns when I was growing up. How fitting, I thought. I struck it up and brought the flame to Steve's open mouth. The flame flared to life and gushed two feet up in the air. Gorgeous! I had created the perfect decoration. I took up my phone and recorded a video to capture this in all its glory as Steve's body convulsed, and he eventually flopped over on his side before rolling onto the gas-soaked carpet. Finally, I knew my father would be proud. I slung my overnight bag I kept behind the front door over my shoulder as I exited the house.

I headed to my car, the half-empty gasoline can in hand. I would need it to burn that car, like all the rest, I knew. My mind burned with questions. What were the children thinking right then? What would they make of a fire extinguisher as a prize? What were they hearing on the radio? Could they smell the smoke? Were they clever enough to feel the fear yet?

I wondered about all these things and more. I hoped that they would start to feel it. The creeping terror that begins in the belly, then constricts the lungs, then drives the heart to beat faster, and faster as they start to run home, holding back tears but failing miserably. I turned the car around and looked across the street one last time. Johnny's mother was on the porch, screaming, naturally, as she had no idea what to do. I looked over at her and gave her a sympathetic nod. She didn't know that Johnny wasn't inside the house.

I tried to tell her with my expression that he was safe. Tonight, all the kids would feel fear, but they would all be safe. And from now on, nothing would ever be able to frighten them. Our tricks and treats are done. Thank you for spending time with us beyond the setting Halloween sun. The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett.

Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. To discover how you can get even more sleep, horror stories from us, just visit sleepless. dot the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about the sleepless sanctuary. Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for only one low monthly price.

On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for joining us around the campfire for our 20 season. This audio program is copyright 2023 and 2024 by 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.