J Cooper

Chapter 6: As Below, so Above.

            Trent could hear what used to be Chris tearing through the kitchen behind them—the frantic scrape of nails dragging across tile, the crash of overturned furniture, and that broken, half-formed laugh echoing through the dark like something caught between glitching machinery and a wild animal. He stumbled unexpectedly into something solid and realized with a jolt that he had collided with the candy table. The same table he had knocked over minutes earlier now stood completely upright, as if untouched. For a moment Trent simply stared, disoriented and unable to trust what he was seeing. The candy bowl had returned as well, though it was not merely refilled, it overflowed, mounded with far too many pieces to have ever fit inside it. Hundreds of bright wrappers gleamed like slick, wet jewels in the dim light, their colors unnaturally vivid. Reese’s. Snickers. Kit Kats. More than before. Much more. And worse than that, the entire heap seemed to shift, the wrappers rising and falling subtly, almost imperceptibly, as though the candy itself was breathing.

            “What the hell…” Trent whispered, shocked at how small his voice sounded in the suffocating sweetness that filled the air. It reeked of sugar and something fouler beneath it, a nauseating undercurrent of decay that made the back of his throat burn. He waited for the world to correct itself, for some logical explanation to form about how the table could be upright again or how the candy had multiplied, but every attempt at rational thought hit a dense mental fog that left his mind buzzing with static. Instinct took over. Trent surged forward, gripping the table with both hands, and shoved with all his strength, sending it crashing back onto its side. The bowl flipped, scattering candy across the floor in a chaotic burst of wrappers that fluttered downward like injured insects.

            “Hey!” Matt yelped behind him, momentarily forgetting the terror stalking them from the kitchen. His eyes widened in disbelief at the wasted treasure. “What’d you do that for?”

            Trent didn’t respond. His focus was locked on the floor where the candy had fallen. The pieces didn’t settle randomly the way they should have. Instead, they continued to roll beyond his feet and Matt’s, traveling farther than gravity should allow. One by one, each piece slowed and turned, aligning itself neatly beside the others. Perfect rows of gleaming wrappers formed across the old wooden floor, all pointing in the same direction—toward the dark hallway behind them, toward the path they had fled not long ago, and toward whatever was dragging itself closer in the dark. The house was directing them, or warning them, or perhaps something far more sinister. Whatever it was, Trent felt the weight of its intent settle cold and heavy in his chest.

            Matt had only turned his head for a moment, following the scattered candy as it rolled across the warped floorboards, but the scream tore out of him the instant he saw Chris. The boy stood half-hunched in the doorway, his silhouette crooked and wrong, with a choking stream of black sludge mixed with blood spilling from his mouth and dripping down his chin in thick, trembling ropes. The sound of his ragged breathing filled the corridor, broken and uneven, like someone forcing air through a ruined instrument.

            “Trick or treat, Matty,” Chris growled, the words twisting wetly in his throat. “Give me something good to eat.”

            Matt’s eyes darted instinctively toward the candy that had clattered across the floor like a scatter of loose teeth, a reflexive flicker of childhood habit in the middle of a nightmare. But when he looked back at Chris, really looked—his voice died in his throat. A strangled, broken scream escaped him before he fully understood what he was seeing.

            Chris— or what had once been Chris, stood framed in the ruined doorway. His Art the Clown costume was nothing more than shredded fabric hanging in strips from his trembling frame, smeared with dirt, sweat, and something far darker. The once-white makeup on his face had melted into streaks of gray and black, creating the grotesque illusion of a smile drooping down his cheeks. One of his eyes bulged out in a milky haze, filmed over like a dead fish left too long in the sun; the other flickered with a sharp, ravenous brightness that was not human at all. A thick, bubbling mixture of blood and tar-like sludge oozed continuously from the corner of his mouth, pattering onto the floor with faint sizzling hisses that filled the air with the stench of rot and ruined candy.

            “Trick or treat, Matty…” Chris crooned, forcing his broken voice into a mock-sing-song cadence that made the words feel twisted and cruel. He took another step forward, twitching like a marionette whose strings had been tied by someone who didn’t understand human anatomy.  

            “Give me something good to eat.”

            Each syllable came out warped, half growl, half wet gurgle, as though whatever animated him was still practicing the mechanism of speech, still learning how to shape sounds with a mouth that was no longer fully its own. The smell followed next: a horrific cocktail of spoiled sugar, rusted iron, and rotting flesh so thick it coated the back of Matt’s tongue.

            Matt stumbled backward, his entire body trembling, the knife forgotten for the moment in his hand. His face had drained of color, his eyes wide with disbelief and horror. “Chris…?” he whispered, the name breaking apart in his throat. “What… what happened to you?”

            Chris tilted his head to the side in a jerking, unnatural motion, the vertebrae in his neck popping with sharp cracks. His jaw opened too wide, stretching until something inside seemed to tear.

            “I got hungry,” he whispered, and what followed was a bubbling laugh, wet, choking, and impossibly gleeful—that echoed through the hall like a broken music box playing its final, corrupted tune.

            Trent didn’t wait for another sound. Instinct surged through him like a jolt of electricity, telling him to run even before Chris twitched forward again, fingers curling and clawing at the air. The scrape of Chris’s shoes across the tile sounded like nails dragging across bone, sharp and hollow and wrong. Trent seized Matt by the wrist and pulled, dragging him deeper into the house. Candy crunched beneath their feet, the wrappers bursting under their weight as they slipped on the sticky mixture of sugar, blood, and whatever else coated the floor, the whole house seeming to breathe around them as they ran.

            Matt had turned his head to follow the scattered candy, and screamed as he caught sight of Chris, half hunched over, with a mixture of black sludge and blood running from the boy’s mouth.

            “Trick or Treat Matty! Give me something good to eat.” He growled.

            Matt’s head turned instinctively, eyes darting toward the candy that clattered across the floor like falling teeth, before turning back towards Chris and froze. A strangled, broken scream tore from his throat before he even realized what he was looking at.

            Chris or what had once been Chris was half-hunched in the doorway. His costume hung in tatters, the once-white clown makeup streaked with sweat, filth, and congealed blood. One of his eyes was milk-white, bulging in its socket, the other burned with a feverish hunger. A thick, bubbling mix of black sludge and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin and splattering against the floor with a wet hiss.

            “Trick or treat, Matty…” Chris crooned, his voice a guttural mockery of its former cheer. He staggered forward, twitching like a marionette with tangled strings. “Give me something good to eat.”

            Each word came out warped and wrong half growl, half gurgle—as if something inside him was still learning how to speak with a human mouth. The smell hit next: rot, iron, and something sickly sweet, like spoiled candy.

            Matt stumbled back, shaking his head, his face pale and trembling. “Chris…?” he whispered. “What… what happened to you?”

            Chris tilted his head, the motion too fast, too sharp. His jaw cracked. “I got hungry,” he whispered, and a bubbling laugh followed, a gurgling, choking thing that echoed through the kitchen.

            Trent’s instincts screamed run, even before Chris twitched forward, his fingers clawing at the air. The sound of his shoes scraping across the tile came like nails on bone.

            Trent grabbed Matt’s wrist and yanked him deeper into the house. The candy crunched beneath their shoes as they stumbled, slipping on sugar and blood.

            Chris lunged without the slightest hint of hesitation. There was no warning cry, no shift of breath, only the violent sound of his shoes slamming against the tile and the sharp crack of a bone snapping somewhere deep in his neck as he moved. He collided with Matt full force, the impact driving the younger boy backward into the overturned table. The guttural snarl that tore from Chris’s throat was thick and warped, not even remotely human.

            “Matty!” Trent shouted, panic ripping through his voice as he reached for Chris’s arm. But the thing wearing Chris’s skin was monstrously strong. Its muscles jerked and spasmed beneath the shredded clown costume, swollen tendons standing out like steel cables as it forced Matt to the ground with terrifying ease.

            Matt screamed, one sharp, broken sound that echoed through the house, while Chris pinned him down, drool and blood dripping in long, trembling strands from his open mouth. His voice stuttered and bubbled as he spoke, warping into something hideous as it pushed through his ruined throat.

            “I said,” he hissed, his breath wet and cold, “give me something good to eat.”

            “Get off him!” Trent roared. He threw his entire weight into Chris, tackling him sideways. The three of them crashed to the floor, the impact rattling the window and sending a cascade of candy skittering across the tiles like shards of broken glass.

            For a desperate heartbeat, Trent managed to pin Chris’s shoulders to the ground. “Come on, man! Snap out of it!” he shouted, his voice cracking with a mixture of fear and fading hope. He searched Chris’s eyes, praying to see some glimmer of the friend he knew.

            But Chris only laughed.

            It was a choking, gurgling sound, thick with blood and something darker. His spine arched unnaturally, and his head twisted in a full, horrifying rotation until his neck bones popped one after the other like brittle twigs. His wild eyes rolled back into place, and his lips peeled away from his teeth in a grotesque, sludge-slick grin.

            Then he moved.

            His motion was sudden and jerky, powered by a strength that felt entirely wrong. In a blur, Chris rolled Trent beneath him. Trent’s fists pounded against his chest, but the blows landed with the sickening resistance of hitting wet stone, dense, unyielding, and disturbingly warm. Chris’s trembling hands clamped around Trent’s neck, fingers digging in with terrifying force, cold and relentless.

            “Chris, please!” Trent choked, clawing at the tightening grip. His breaths came ragged and thin. “It’s me!”

            Chris leaned in until their faces nearly touched. His breath wafted over Trent’s skin in waves of rot and copper, thick enough to taste. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin in blackened streaks.

            “I know,” he whispered.

            Then his jaw opened far beyond what a human mouth should allow. The skin at the corners tore with a soft, sickening rip, peeling wider and wider as the darkness behind his teeth widened like a pit.

            Trent’s vision began to shrink at the edges, the world narrowing to a blurry tunnel framed by Chris’s ashen face and those impossible, clouded eyes looming closer. His strength was draining fast. His hands clawed weakly at Chris’s wrists, but the creature’s grip only tightened. He could feel the wet heat of Chris’s foul breath spreading across his face, thick with rot and copper, as the torn mouth opened wider and wider.

            Then a sound split the air.

            It was wet and heavy, like a watermelon bursting open under a hammer.

            Chris convulsed violently. His whole body jerked—rigid for a heartbeat, then collapsing in a heap on top of Trent. A bubbling hiss filled the space between them. Trent blinked through the blur and saw the cause: the sharp point of the steak knife jutting from the back of Chris’s skull, its blade buried deep. Thick black fluid oozed around the wound, bubbling and pulsing like tar trying to crawl free.

            Matt stood behind him.

            He was shaking so hard the knife handle trembled in his fist. His face was streaked with dirt, sweat, and the remains of tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed. He looked impossibly small standing over Chris’s ruined body, yet it had been his hand that delivered the killing blow.

            Trent forced himself to shove Chris aside, coughing as cold air rushed back into his lungs. His throat burned. His chest heaved. He tried to speak, but it came out barely more than a croak.

            “Matty…”

            But Matt didn’t seem to hear him. His eyes were unfocused, wild, locked on the knife still jutting from Chris’s skull as if he couldn’t accept that it was real. He gripped the handle with both hands now, tugging at it again and again in a frantic, mechanical motion. His voice was a broken whisper, repeating the same three words over and over.

            “Get off him… get off him… get off him…”

            “Matt…” Trent rasped again, pushing himself upright despite the pain radiating through his neck. He reached out, grabbing his brother’s wrists gently but firmly. “Matty! It’s okay—it’s okay, I’m okay.”

            Matt’s entire body shuddered when Trent pulled him close. The boy collapsed into him, burying his face in Trent’s shoulder. Trent wrapped both arms around him, holding him as tightly as his trembling muscles would allow. They stayed like that for several seconds, both shaking, both trying to catch their breath. Eventually Matt’s small hands rose to clutch Trent’s shirt, anchoring himself to his brother as Trent helped him to his feet.

            “He… he was going to kill you,” Matt stammered, his voice quaking with leftover terror.

            Chris’s body twitched then, a small involuntary jerk that made Matt flinch and clamp himself closer to Trent. The corpse spasmed once more… twice… then went unsettlingly still, limbs splayed at unnatural angles across the sticky, candy-littered floor.

            The house responded with a low, rumbling groan—a deep, ancient sound that vibrated through the walls and floor. It felt displeased. Almost disappointed, as though some part of it had been invested in Chris still moving.

            Then the giggle came.

            Soft at first. Thin and childlike, drifting through the dark halls like the voice of someone hiding behind a door. But the sound grew, layering, overlapping until multiple children seemed to be whispering and giggling inside the walls, a disorienting nursery chorus that crawled under the skin.

            Trent swallowed hard and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, trying to steady his nerves. “We have to move,” he said, his voice rough and unsteady.

Matt nodded quickly. Tears streaked fresh paths through the grime on his cheeks.  “Yeah… before it wakes up again.”

            Trent’s gaze shifted instinctively toward the overturned table. Matt followed his eyes and frowned in confusion.

            “What are you doing?” he asked as Trent stepped toward it.

            “Getting us the hell out of here,” Trent said.

            He lifted one foot and stomped down on one of the table legs. The old wood splintered with a sharp crack. Trent bent down, grabbed the broken leg like a club, and sprinted to the nearest window. He swung hard. The wood connected with the glass in a heavy thud—solid, unmoving, like striking a slab of stone rather than a pane.

            He swung again.
            And again.

            Each blow rang through the room, raw and desperate. But the window didn’t crack. Didn’t even quiver. It absorbed the hits like nothing more than a deep breath.

            “What the hell…” Trent whispered. He leaned closer until his forehead nearly brushed the glass. Outside, there were no streetlights. No yard. No trees. No neighborhood. Nothing but an unnatural darkness so thick it looked like ink pressed against the glass. His own reflection stared back at him—or something wearing his reflection. Its eyes were darker. Its mouth almost smiling. And as Trent breathed, its chest didn’t rise in sync with his.

            “I wanna go home…” Matty whimpered behind him.

            Trent stepped back from the window, forcing calm into a voice that trembled with fear. “Don’t worry, buddy. I’m gonna get you home. We just have to find a way out of this house.”

            Together, they backed toward the hallway—the same one Chris and Logan had disappeared down earlier. The candy scattered across the floor shifted as they moved, the wrappers crinkling softly. The pieces pulsed faintly like living things, their bright colors flashing in the dim light as they slowly rearranged themselves across the boards.

            Behind them, Chris’s fingers twitched.

Chapter 5: Darkness of Art.

             The house went still. Only the hum of the flickering light… and Matty’s ragged breathing… filled the silence.

            Then came a sound.

            A dragging, wet, uneven shuffle… close. Too close.

            Matty’s voice quivered. “T-Trent… someone’s coming…”

            For a split second, Trent let himself hope. Logan? Chris? Someone human?

            But hope died as soon as the figure stepped through the doorway and what entered the kitchen was something far, far worse.

                                                                        *

            Earlier, upstairs, Trent’s friends Logan and Chris crept through the shadowed halls. The air was thick and musty, carrying the faint tang of iron. The walls seemed to pulse, slow, subtle, almost alive, but neither boy noticed in their hurry.

            Chris pushed open a cracked door at the end of the hall.

            Moonlight spilled across the floor… and glinted off something pale in the corner.

            At first, Chris thought it was a reflection.

            Then he realized it was a boy, he was slight, unnervingly still and dressed entirely in black, a long cape draped over his small frame like a funeral shroud.

            “Who… are you?” Chris whispered.

            The boy didn’t answer.

            He only smiled.

            And in that instant, Chris felt the air tighten in his chest, sharp and cold as a blade sliding between his ribs.

            Logan stepped forward, recognition striking him like a jolt. He knew exactly who this was—who the new kid was supposed to be. But his breath caught when he noticed something else:

            A body.

            Almost hidden beneath a long window curtain that billowed despite the still air. A limp arm lay half-exposed, fingers curled in a position that looked horribly wrong.

            “Chris—don’t!” Logan choked out.

            Chris didn’t even have time to turn.

            The boy moved too fast—blurring forward with a feral snarl. One hand shot out, and jagged claws ripped cleanly through Chris’s side. His scream tore through the hall. He crumpled to the floor, tangled in fabric and blood, the playful ruffles of his Art the Clown costume now soaked and shredded.

            “Chris!” Logan lunged, grabbing his arm, trying to drag him toward the doorway.

            The boy turned, lips peeling back in a silent, animal rage. His eyes flashed, bright, burning, inhuman.

            For a single, fatal heartbeat, Logan froze.

            Chris screamed again, a raw, piercing sound that split the hallway.

            The boy pounced again.

            He yanked Chris upward with impossible strength and sank his fangs into his throat. The bite tore viciously. Blood sprayed across the walls, across Logan’s hands, hot and shocking. Chris convulsed once, then went limp.

            But the boy didn’t stop.

            He hammered Chris’s lifeless body against the floor, again and again, each strike punctuated by the crack of snapping bone. The grotesque impacts echoed through the hall like a drumbeat, until the only sound left was a wet, choking gurgle… then nothing at all.

            Logan stumbled backward, stumbling over his own feet. Panicked stricken, he tore himself free and sprinted down the hall, heart slamming in his chest. He didn’t look back.

            Behind him, a faint, unnatural light seeped into the floorboards. The house seemed to inhale, slow, satisfied and the walls gave a long, creaking sigh.

            By the time Trent heard the screams from below, Chris’s body was no longer just dead.

            Something older… something hungry… pulsed through the floorboards, as if the house itself had claimed him.              

                                                                        *

            Now, in the kitchen, Trent saw him.
            Chris.
            Or what was left of him.

            His Art the Clown costume hung in tatters, the once-white makeup running in gray streaks down his face. The black-painted grin had cracked open, soaked through with something darker. One sleeve dangled in shreds; his forearm twisted at an angle no human joint should allow. His cloudy, filmed-over eyes still managed to find Trent.

            “Chris?” Trent whispered, voice cracking. “Oh my God…”

            Chris’s jaw slackened. A wet, strangled gurgle bubbled out of his throat. Then, through the ruin of his vocal cords—came words that didn’t sound fully human:

            “…T-Trent… it… hurts…”

            Matty whimpered and clutched Trent’s arm.

            Chris lurched forward, one jerky, unnatural step at a time. His shoes squeaked against the tile, leaving behind smears of blood and something thick, dark, and wrong. His head twitched, like his neck couldn’t remember how to hold itself up.

            “Stay back!” Trent shouted, raising the knife.

            Chris’s head snapped sharply toward the sound. His dull eyes went wide.

            Then he sprinted.

            Trent barely managed to yank Matt aside before Chris slammed into the counter, teeth snapping inches from Trent’s arm. The impact rattled the whole kitchen. Utensils clattered. A deep, wet shriek tore from Chris’s throat, and his painted grin split wider, revealing broken, jagged, blood-soaked teeth.

            Trent slashed.

            The butcher knife cut deep into Chris’s shoulder. Dark blood sprayed across the counter. Trent dragged Matt behind him, but Chris didn’t stop.

            He laughed.
            A hoarse, choking wheeze that curdled into a snarl.

            Chris seized Trent’s wrist, his grip impossibly strong, fingers digging hard enough to bruise. His breath hit Trent’s face, reeking of rot and iron.

            “Trent!” Matt screamed, trying to pull his brother free.

            Panic surged through Trent. He twisted with every ounce of desperation, ripping his arm from Chris’s grip just before those broken teeth could clamp down. The momentum sent Trent sprawling across the filthy, insect-scattered floor, taking Matty down with him.

            “Trent…” Chris growled, voice stretching into something mocking and blood-curdling.

            He lunged again, jaws snapping toward Trent’s face.

            Trent kicked with everything he had, slamming Chris backward into the cellar door. The wood groaned and splintered but held firm. Chris’s head jerked to the side—his neck twisting so far it nearly folded. His fogged eyes rolled, scanning the room in slow, twitchy jerks.

            Then he moved.

            Wrong.
            Spidery.
            Unsteady.

            His joints cracked like brittle twigs as he rose. The shredded clown costume swayed with each jerking step, his hands clawing at the air as he dragged himself forward.

            Matt sobbed, voice high and fragile. “He’s not stopping, Trent—he’s not stopping!”

            “RUN!” Trent shouted.

            He seized Matt’s arm and bolted. The hallway warped around them—the walls pulsing, the floor rippling underfoot like the house itself was breathing. Doors slammed shut as they passed, funneling them into a single dark corridor.

            Behind them, Chris screamed—half laughter, half agony—his voice bouncing through crooked hallways, the painted grin flashing between bursts of shadow.

            “One, two, three, four,” he shrieked,
            “I’m gonna eat your brains when they spill onto the floor!”

            He tore after them.

Chapter 2: Eyes on Taramack Drive

Chapter 2: Eyes on Taramack Drive

            Trent didn’t even get the chance to change before his phone buzzed. Fishing it out of his pocket, he put it on speaker as his mom’s voice came through one of those quick check-ins she managed to squeeze in from work.

            “Hey, honey. How was school today?”

            Trent sighed, dabbing gray makeup across his cheek in the bathroom mirror. “Pretty awful. My new mask got ruined.”

            “Aww, honey, I’m sorry. What happened?”

            “Nothing. Just some kid at school got a little rough. It’s fine or whatever.”

            “Well, it’s too late to get a replacement,” she said. “Your dad told you to be careful. You shouldn’t have taken it to school in the first place.”

            “I know, Mom, I’m sorry.” Trent muttered.

            “What are you going to do for tonight?”

            “I’m going as a zombie again,” he said, leaning close to the mirror as he pressed on a bit of latex to make his face look rotted and peeling.

            “Good. Just make sure you take Matty trick-or-treating.”

            “Do I have to? I kind of already have plans with Chris and Logan.”

            “You promised, Trent,” she reminded him. “It’ll just be for an hour or two around the neighborhood. I’ll be home by nine. I need you to keep an eye on your brother.”

            “Mom, he’s old enough to go by himself,” Trent started, but she cut him off.

            “You promised when we got you that werewolf costume that you’d take lil Matty out trick-or-treating. I expect you to keep your promise. Your dad and I won’t be home until later, and someone needs to be there with him.”

            He mumbled something that sounded like “yeah” and hung up before she could lecture him about responsibility again.

            By the time the sun dipped behind the trees, Matt was bouncing around in a wrinkled skeleton costume, his old, hooded mask splattered with too much fake blood and a pillowcase clutched in one hand.

            “C’mon, Trent! You’re not even dressed!”

            Trent grunted, pulling on a hooded sweatshirt and grabbing the tattered remains of his werewolf mask. “This is my costume. I’m the sad werewolf who got mauled by a jerk in homeroom so now I’m a zombie. I’ll be done in a minute.”

            Matt snorted. “Ten outta ten. Real scary.”

            “Get outta here,” Trent said, shooing him toward the hallway. He gave himself one last look in the mirror, adjusted a flap of fake rotting skin, then flipped off the light and headed to his room to finish changing.

            Trent was still brushing fake blood off his fingers when he heard the slam of car doors and the low murmur of familiar voices coming from the front walk, followed by quick, impatient knocking.

            He opened the door to find Logan and Chris standing on the porch Logan dressed as Jeff the Killer, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low, and Chris as Art the Clown from Terrifier, but his costume was cheap, making him look more like the bargain bin, temu version of the horror icon, clutching a garbage bag that clinked suspiciously in his hands.

            “Took you long enough,” Logan said. “You ready or what?”

            Trent sighed. “Can’t. Mom’s making me take my brother trick-or-treating.”

            Chris gave a mock pout. “Aww, big brother duty. Tragic.”

            From behind Trent, Matt’s voice piped up. “Who’s tragic?”

            “Your brother,” Logan said with a smirk. “We were gonna do something way more fun than candy-hunting, little man.”

            Trent shot him a warning look, but Matt was already interested. “Like what?”

            Chris grinned. “You know that creepy old Winchester place on Taramack Drive?”

            Matt’s eyes widened. “Where the vampire kid lives now?”

            Logan laughed. “See? Even your brother knows.”

            Trent crossed his arms. “You two are idiots. He’s just a kid. And I’ve thought about it we’re not going over there tonight.”

            “Oh, come on,” Chris said. “We’re not doing anything bad. Maybe just a few rolls of toilet paper. Classic Halloween tradition to welcome the new neighbors.”

            Trent groaned. “Yeah, I’m sure your ‘tradition’ doesn’t include a dozen or so eggs.”

            Matt perked up, clearly enjoying this. “I want to go.”

            Trent snapped, “No. You’re going home after trick-or-treating.”

            Matt’s grin turned sly. “Then I’ll tell Mom what you’re really doing tonight.”

            Logan raised his eyebrows. “Damn, kid’s got leverage.”

            Trent glared at Matt. “You get scared just walking past there, what makes you think you can actually go and not chicken out?”

            “I’m not scared,” Matt said, puffing out his chest. “You’re just saying that because you are.”

            Chris chuckled. “He’s got you pegged, man.”

            Trent rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Fine. You can come but you don’t wander off, and you do exactly what I say. Got it?”

            Matt grinned triumphantly. “Got it.”

            “But we still get to go trick-or-treating first, right?” Matt asked.

            “Well, I wouldn’t say no to a little candy,” Logan said.

            “Yeah,” Trent agreed. “We probably should. It’d look suspicious if we came home empty-handed.”

            They set off down the cracked sidewalk, the night already thick with laughter and the rustle of candy bags. Porch lights glowed like little beacons in the dark, but beyond them, the streets thinned out fewer kids, fewer lights. The kind of stretch where shadows moved differently.

            Somewhere beyond the trees, at the far edge of Taramack Drive, the Winchester house waited—windows dark, roof sagging, and not a single pumpkin on the porch.

Chapter 1. Masks and Shadows.

            October wind scraped across the cul-de-sac, stirring up brittle leaves and the smell of burning pumpkins. By the time Trent Keller trudged up the driveway, his bookbag hung off one shoulder like a half-shed skin, and his werewolf mask dangled in shreds from his hand.

            From the porch, ten year old Matty peered over a candy bowl already half-raided. “Jeez, Trent, what happened? Did a truck run over your face?”

            Trent shot him a look sharp enough to cut. “Drop it.”

            Matty grinned. “You cryin’? You look like you’re cryin’.”

            “I said drop it, Matty.”

            Their mom wasn’t home yet, which meant Trent didn’t have to fake being fine. He tossed the ruined mask on the counter where its plastic muzzle curled like something melting. He stared at it at the clawed slashes across the snout and felt his stomach twist again.

            “It was that new kid,” he muttered finally. “The one dressed like a vampire.”

            Matt’s eyes widened. “Vampire kid? You mean the new kid?”

            “Yeah.” Trent slumped into a chair. “I was just messing around, okay? Said his fake teeth looked like he got them from the dollar store. He didn’t say anything just looked at me. Then when I turned around, he—” Trent hesitated. “He scratched the mask. Fast. Like…too fast.”

            Matty laughed. “Maybe he’s actually a vampire.”

            Trent rolled his eyes, but something about the way the kid’s nails had gleamed under the fluorescent light thin and sharp like glass had stayed with him all afternoon. “He’s just a freak. Moved into that wreck of a place on Taramack Drive.”

            Matt perked up. “The Winchester house?”

            “Yeah. Me, Logan, and Chris were gonna get him back tonight though.”

            Matty frowned. “But Mom said you gotta take me trick-or-treating.”

            Trent groaned. “Seriously?”

            “She said you’re responsible this year ” Matt made air quotes, before adding, “Mom and dad have plans tonight and won’t be home. So you gotta take me Trick r treating.

            Trent rubbed his face, torn between annoyance and unease. The old Winchester place had been empty for years boarded windows, no lights, and the kind of silence that made dogs bark at nothing. Now it had a new resident, the new family had moved in fast, faster than Trent had expected to be possible, but he wanted to teach that little pale kid with dark eyes a lesson and to even the score.

            Outside, the sun was already slipping behind the trees, and the streetlights were flickering to life one by one.

            Halloween night had just begun.