7 True Halloween Horror Stories | "The Masks Came Off… But the Faces Weren’t Theirs" 😱 That Make Halloween Night Feel Cursed

fall never arrives all at once first the air then the light and slowly the things you love begin to find each other a jacket meets a dress a hoodie slips beneath a blazer an old cap finds a new scarf because you don't simply step into the season you create it layer by layer until it finally feels like fall find fall your way at ross hello everyone and welcome back to horror stories i know many of you use these episodes to fall asleep so before you drift off i'd love it if you could leave a comment letting me know where you're listening from around the world also don't forget to like and subscribe if you're enjoying the episodes story one october 31st 2016 was supposed to be nothing more than an easy night earning some extra money i was 19 in my second year at the local community college and babysitting for the bradshaw family had become my usual weekend job they lived in one of those peaceful suburban neighborhoods where the most dramatic event was normally a resident forgetting to bring in their trash cans mr and mrs bradshaw were going downtown to attend some upscale corporate halloween party so they needed someone to look after their two children jamie who was eight and little sophia who was barely five the money was good fifty dollars plus any leftovers i wanted from the refrigerator and the kids were generally asleep by nine i remember thinking it would be the easiest money i had ever made all i had to do was sit around watching netflix while giving candy to trick-or-treaters the bradshaw's left at approximately 7 30. mrs bradshaw did that typical parental thing where she wrote down five separate phone numbers even though i already had her cell number saved in my contacts the children were energized by the pre-halloween candy their grandmother had mailed them and were racing around the house in their costumes jamie was dressed as some superhero i didn't recognize while sophia wore a princess outfit with a tiara that constantly slipped off her head i eventually persuaded them to settle on the couch by promising that we could watch hocus pocus for roughly an hour everything remained completely ordinary trick-or-treaters arrived in waves groups of children carrying pillowcases and plastic pumpkins with their parents waiting at the edge of the driveway holding flashlights i was honestly having a good time it reminded me of how exciting halloween had felt when i was their age before life became complicated by college applications part-time work and all the other adult responsibilities that had suddenly begun to seem so important at around nine o'clock after helping both children change into their pajamas and putting them to bed in jamie's room sophia always insisted on sleeping in her brother's bed on frightening nights i noticed someone wearing a clown costume standing at the corner of the property exactly where the bradshaw's lawn met the sidewalk initially i didn't give it much thought halloween attracts people in every kind of strange costume and teenagers in particular enjoy taking creepy outfits too far but this clown wasn't accompanying a group didn't have a bag for candy and wasn't really doing anything except standing there what made the costume unsettling was its simplicity the person wore a filthy white jumpsuit with pom-poms running down the front and a mask that even from the living room window looked different from the inexpensive masks sold in party stores its features were unnaturally stretched and its grin was far too wide painted in a faded shade of red that appeared brown beneath the street light at approximately 9 15 i sent a text to my boyfriend tyler there's a creepy clown outside the house where i'm babysitting he's just standing there tyler reacted exactly as tyler always did and called me immediately instead of responding with another text i remember whispering into the phone even though the children were upstairs and couldn't hear the conversation he told me that if the man didn't leave soon i should contact the police but i felt foolish at the thought of calling them what was i supposed to report that somebody wearing a halloween costume was standing on a public sidewalk while speaking with tyler i moved from one room to another inspecting every window that was when i realized the clown was no longer remaining in a single location he was slowly circling the house maintaining an equal distance from its walls almost as though he were following an invisible perimeter every time i looked through another window i caught sight of him passing his mask would tilt slightly toward the house each time he never looked completely ahead always keeping the house within his peripheral vision tyler remained on the phone with me for about 20 more minutes during that period the clown completed perhaps three entire circuits around the property i began timing him each lap lasted approximately six minutes his pace never changed he didn't accelerate or slow down by then the number of trick-or-treaters had dwindled only an occasional cluster of older children without costumes came by in search of last-minute candy and none of them appeared to notice the clown or care that he was there i repeatedly tried to convince myself that it was an elaborate joke perhaps one of the bradshaw's neighbors had paid someone to make the neighborhood feel more atmospheric for halloween but there was a mechanical quality to the clown's movements something calculated rehearsed and purposeful that caused my chest to tighten i told tyler that i was going to test something then i switched off the porch light the universally understood signal that a house had run out of candy the moment the light disappeared the clown froze in the middle of a step he remained absolutely motionless for perhaps 10 seconds before resuming his circuit as if nothing had occurred by 9 45 i was truly frightened i checked every lock twice shut all the curtains except for one narrow opening through which i could observe him and relocated to the kitchen where i had a clear view of both the front and rear doors tyler kept attempting to calm me down he suggested the man could be drunk or high just some strange person who would eventually lose interest and go away then i noticed something that made me gasp audibly the clown was carrying something i hadn't seen earlier either it had been conceded before or he had only just taken it out it was a phone he wasn't holding it as though he were making a call or writing a message he held it up as if he were recording as he continued walking he filmed the house the glow from the screen casting a nauseating blue light across the lower half of his mask my thoughts immediately went to the children upstairs and the fact that their bedroom faced the street i hurried up to verify that the curtains were shut both children were sound asleep jamie was stretched across the bed with one arm dangling over its edge while sofia lay curled against him sucking her thumb i remained there briefly listening to the rhythm of their breathing and wondering whether i should wake them and bring them downstairs with me in the end i chose not to disturb them i reasoned that they would be safer if they didn't know what was happening when i returned to the kitchen tyler was nearly shouting through the phone i had been silent for so long so long that he was demanding to know whether i was all right after i explained that the clown was filming the house tyler announced that he was coming over he lived about fifteen minutes away i remember experiencing relief and even greater anxiety at the same time his decision to come made the situation seem more genuine somehow more dangerous and serious i repeated the address for him despite the fact that he had dropped me off there before and then returned to my position beside the kitchen window the clown's routine had changed rather than continuously circling the house he now stopped at every corner and stood there for precisely thirty seconds i counted the seconds before he proceeded to the next corner at every pause he slowly rotated his head from left to right while keeping the phone steady and recording everything everything went wrong at ten thirteen i recall the precise time because i was texting tyler to ask how far away he was he responded that he was parking farther down the street because he didn't want to enter the driveway and risk escalating the situation with the clown i was in the middle of typing please hurry when i heard the basement door opening it wasn't the exterior entrance to the basement it was the door inside the house the one connecting the basement to the hallway beside the bathroom my entire body stiffened the bradshaws had warned me that the door sometimes failed to latch properly and needed to be pushed firmly to close it but i also knew that i had not entered the basement at any point that evening i stood frozen in the kitchen with my phone in one hand and a knife from the drawer in the other i couldn't even remember when i had grabbed it from inside the house came unmistakable footsteps slow and deliberate not exactly attempting to remain silent but not producing any unnecessary noise either the footsteps halted at the foot of the main staircase the one leading to the floor where the children were sleeping that was when i knew i had to act i dropped my phone onto the kitchen counter it struck the surface with a terrible clatter that sounded impossibly loud, and I sprinted toward the stairs. My socks slid against the hardwood as I turned the corner. Behind me, the footsteps became faster, climbing two stairs at a time. I rushed into Jamie's room, slammed the door closed, and twisted the lock with trembling fingers. The children woke in confusion, and Sophia immediately began crying. I pulled both of them into Jamie's closet and whispered that we were playing a game. A special Halloween game in which we all had to hide and remain completely silent. Jamie was old enough to understand that something was wrong. I could see his eyes open wide in the darkness of the closet, but he wrapped his arms around his sister and didn't make a sound. Through the closet door, I heard footsteps moving along the hallway. They were slow again, pausing in front of every door. The handle to Jamie's bedroom moved once, then a second time. After that came nothing but breathing on the door. It was harsh, raspy, and intentionally loud, as though whoever was standing there wanted us to know that they had found us. The silence that followed seemed to last for hours, although it was probably no longer than two or three minutes. Then Tyler's voice came from downstairs. He shouted my name and yelled that the front door was standing wide open. The footsteps in the hallway suddenly moved quickly, breaking into a run toward the stairs. Tyler shouted something that I couldn't understand, followed by a crash that sounded like a piece of furniture toppling over. I desperately wanted to come out of the closet and help him, but Sophia was gripping me so tightly that I could hardly breathe. Jamie kept whispering, don't leave us. Please don't leave us. Again and again. We heard additional crashing, then breaking glass. Tyler's voice gradually grew farther away, as if he were pursuing someone out of the house. And then, without warning, everything became silent. It wasn't normal silence. It was that oppressive, dreadful kind in which your own heartbeat is the only thing you can hear. I kept the children inside the closet for another fifteen minutes. We eventually heard sirens and saw red and blue lights flashing through the bedroom window. Only then did I open the closet door. I carried Sophia while Jamie clutched the back of my shirt, and together we cautiously went downstairs. Two police officers were standing in the wrecked living room. Tyler sat on the couch with blood running from his nose, but there was no trace of anyone wearing a clown costume. The police searched the entire neighborhood that night. They never located the person who had been dressed as the clown. Tyler explained that he had chased the figure across the backyard and into the wooded area behind the houses, but the person disappeared into the darkness. The most disturbing discovery came when the officers examined the figure. The person disappeared into the darkness. The most disturbing discovery came when the officers examined the basement. Someone had picked the lock on the exterior basement entrance. Muddy footprints indicated that an intruder had been hiding down there for some time, possibly since before I arrived that evening. The police also recovered my phone from the kitchen counter where I had dropped it. Somehow it was still recording a video, even though I had no memory of starting one. When the detective played the recording, we could hear me speaking to Tyler, followed by the sound of the basement door opening and my footsteps as I ran. After that, the recording contained approximately four minutes of nothing except breathing, the same coarse, raspy breathing I had heard outside Jamie's bedroom. The Bradshaws returned to find their house crowded with police officers. Mrs. Bradshaw simply held her children and sobbed, while Mr. Bradshaw repeatedly apologized to me, as though any part of what had happened could somehow have been their fault. Three months later, they moved away. They said they could no longer see me, and they said they could no longer see me. They said they could no longer tolerate living in that house. For years afterward, I suffered from nightmares about the mask, the clown's mechanical circuits around the property, and what might have happened if Tyler had not arrived when he did. I eventually moved away to attend college and attempted to leave the entire experience behind, but every Halloween brought the memories back. Then, about two years ago, Tyler called me. He still lived in our hometown and had actually purchased a house approximately six blocks from where I lived. He said he wanted to see me, and I said I wanted to see him. He was doing landscaping work in his backyard because he planned to install a swimming pool. While digging, his shovel struck something solid roughly three feet beneath the ground. The object had been wrapped in plastic, a garbage bag bound tightly into a bundle with duct tape. Inside was the clown mask. There was no mistaking it. It had the same unnaturally long features and faded red smile. The white jumpsuit was there as well, along with another item that prompted Tyler to contact the police immediately. It was a notebook containing addresses, dates, and extensive observations about families throughout the neighborhood. The Bradshaw's address appeared in it, accompanied by notes about their daily routine, the names of their children, my name, and the times when I typically arrived and departed. But this is the detail that still prevents me from sleeping. The entry about the Bradshaw family dated back to 2016, but the most important part of it is that it was the first time I had seen Tyler. But the most recent notes had been written only weeks before Tyler uncovered the bundle. Someone had continued using that same mask and the same technique. Someone was still observing families and recording information about them. The police collected everything as evidence, but they never identified the person who had buried it in Tyler's yard. Tyler sold the house within a month. He didn't even wait for a buyer willing to meet his asking price. Neither of us discusses the incident anymore. Still, every Halloween, we send each other a message just to check in, to confirm that we're both alright, that we're both safe, and that neither of us is anywhere near a window where someone might be slowly circling outside, recording every detail and waiting for the perfect moment to test a basement door. Story 2 Halloween of 2022 changed my life completely. At the time, I was a senior at the state university, studying journalism, and I had been reporting on campus events for the student newspapers since my freshman year. That October evening began like any other Halloween weekend near the university. Costume parties were happening everywhere, intoxicated students were staggering through downtown, and the streets were filled with the usual chaos. I wasn't originally scheduled to work that night. However, Kevin, our regular photographer, called in sick at the last minute. Our editor asked if I could cover the party in person, and I said yes. The party was a large costume party being held at the vault, a former bank building that had been converted into the most popular nightclub near campus. I grabbed my camera and put together a low-effort vampire costume, nothing more than a pair of fangs and a cape worn over my ordinary clothes. Then, at around 10pm, I headed downtown. The streets were packed with zombies, witches, superheroes, and people attempting to outdo one another with increasingly elaborate costumes. The party itself was a complete mess, but I knew that it was exactly what you would imagine: people crammed shoulder to shoulder, awful music blasting from the speakers, and drinks that cost far too much. I spent approximately two hours photographing the winners of the costume contest and intoxicated students embarrassing themselves. At around midnight, I noticed a man wearing an extraordinarily detailed plague doctor mask. You know the type, the long bird-like mask worn by medieval doctors during the Black Death. But this wasn't a cheap version from a Halloween store. Its leather appeared genuinely old and weathered, with brass fittings and glass eyepieces that reflected the strobe lights in an unnerving way. The man was tall, perhaps six feet two inches, and dressed in a long black coat that looked much too heavy for the unusually warm October weather. What captured my attention most was the way he moved through the crowd. People seemed to step aside without consciously realizing they were doing it, leaving a pocket of empty space around him that felt completely unnatural inside such a crowded club. I lifted my camera, intending to photograph his costume. The moment I looked through the viewfinder, however, I saw that he was staring directly at me through the mask's glass lenses. I lowered the camera. He was gone. He had simply vanished into the crowd like smoke. That should have been my first warning, but I dismissed it. People can move quickly inside clubs, especially when they're drunk. I continued taking pictures for another hour before running into my roommate, Jordan. He was wearing a costume based on some anime character I didn't recognize. Jordan was completely wasted and could barely remain standing. His girlfriend, Melissa, was attempting to persuade him to leave. Because their road home passed my apartment anyway, she asked whether I could help her get him back there safely. At approximately 1:30 a.m., we practically carried Jordan out of the club. Melissa supported one of his arms while I held the other, and he mumbled continuously about wanting pizza. Downtown was still crowded and energetic, but the number of people around us began to diminish after we turned onto Riverside Avenue. That was when I saw the Plague Doctor again. He stood motionless beneath a streetlight about one block ahead, facing directly toward us. Melissa noticed him as well and made a joke about creepy men wandering around on Halloween. But there was something about his stillness that made my chest tighten. We turned onto Crawford Street to avoid passing him. It was a shortcut, anyway, taking us through an older section of downtown where the streetlights had never been modernized. The street was darker than normal because several of those lights weren't working. The few that still functioned cast long distorted shadows across the pavement. Jordan had become quiet. His head hung forward and rolled loosely as Melissa and I dragged him along. Around halfway down the block, Melissa's phone rang. Her sister was calling to confirm that she had made it home safely. Melissa released Jordan so she could answer, forcing me to wrap both arms around him to stop him from collapsing. That was when I heard footsteps behind us. They were slow and intentional, the unmistakable sound of heavy boots striking concrete. I turned around and saw the plague doctor once again, now approximately 30 feet behind us. He was walking steadily in our direction. I told Melissa that we had to move faster, but she remained focused on her phone conversation and wasn't paying attention. At that exact moment, Jordan vomited all over his anime costume and my shoes. The odor of cheap beer and whatever food he had eaten struck me immediately. I struggled to keep him upright without throwing up myself. Melissa finally ended the call and began panicking over Jordan's condition. We needed to stop and give him time to recover, so we leaned him against a brick wall beside an abandoned print shop that had been closed for years. Its windows were covered with plywood, which had been marked with graffiti tags I recognized from locations, but I didn't even know where they were. I didn't know where they were. I repeatedly glanced behind us. The plague doctor had stopped as well, maintaining the same distance of approximately 30 feet. He simply stood in the center of the sidewalk. The most unsettling thing was his patience. He didn't approach us, but he didn't leave either. He merely waited. Beneath the broken streetlight, I could barely distinguish his silhouette. Somehow, though, the glass lenses of his mask captured what little light remained. Forming two tiny reflections that never turned away from us. Melissa searched through her purse for tissues so she could clean Jordan when we heard voices coming from the opposite end of Crawford Street. A group of people was approaching, laughing and singing, probably on their way home from another party. Relief swept over me. Having witnesses nearby meant we were safe, or at least that was what I assumed. As the group came closer, however, I noticed that every one of them was wearing a mask. I didn't know what was going on. I didn't know what One person had a wolf mask. Another wore a Jason-style hockey mask. A third had something resembling melted flesh. Someone else wore another plague doctor mask, although it looked much cheaper than the one worn by the man who had followed us. They passed without acknowledging our existence. Jordan was actively dry heaving against the wall, and Melissa was practically shouting at him to drink water. Yet the group flowed around us as though we were invisible. Their laughter continued. Without the slightest interruption. When I looked behind us again, our plague doctor had moved closer. He now stood only about 15 feet away. Two additional figures had joined him, each wearing a different but equally intricate mask. One resembled the face of a Victorian porcelain doll. The other looked like some kind of demon with curved horns. That was when genuine panic seized me. I grabbed Jordan beneath his arms and began dragging him forward while Melissa repeatedly asked what was wrong. I couldn't find the words to explain that three masked people were following us and drawing nearer with every passing second. We stumbled down the street. Jordan's legs provided almost no assistance, and his weight made every step difficult. Crawford Street ended at Washington Boulevard. There should have been traffic there, along with more pedestrians and some sense of safety. But when we arrived at the intersection, the normally busy boulevard was entirely deserted. There were no vehicles, no people, and no sounds except our labored breathing and Jordan's incoherent mumbling. The traffic signals continued changing from green to yellow and then red, casting shifting colors across the empty asphalt, even though there was nothing for them to direct. I could hear the footsteps closing in behind us. There were several sets now, and they were no longer attempting to maintain our pace. They were gaining on us. Melissa finally turned and said, Her scream shattered the silence like breaking glass. We ran, or at least tried to, with the barely conscious Jordan suspended between us. We managed to travel perhaps half a block down Washington Boulevard before his legs gave out entirely and we were forced to stop. The masked figures had separated behind us. Instead of remaining together, they spread into a semicircle that slowly tightened around us. Then I saw more figures emerging from the doorways and the front doorways. They were all wearing masks of various designs, but every one of them was elaborate and horrifying. One was a cracked baby doll face missing an eye. Another was made from leather, with the zippers positioned where its facial features should have been. A third resembled exposed muscles and sinew. They moved with dreadful precision, perfectly synchronized, as though they had practiced that exact situation beforehand. Melissa was crying and pleading with them to leave us alone. She offered them money, her phone, and anything else they wanted. None of them responded. They produced no sound except for the steady impact of their footsteps. The original plague doctor lifted one gloved hand and pointed toward Jordan. Then he curled his fingers in a beckoning gesture. His meaning was obvious. They wanted Jordan. I don't know what compelled me to do it, but I pulled out my phone and began recording. I thought evidence might be useful later. Maybe a video would convince someone that we were telling the truth. Through the screen, I saw something that caused my knees to weaken. Jordan was no longer Jordan. Where my roommate's face should have been, there was only a smooth blank surface. It looked as if skin had been stretched across the place where his features belonged. There were no eyes, no mouth, and no nose. Only an empty, flesh-colored nothing. Melissa saw what appeared on my phone and then looked down at the person we were holding between us. Her next scream was the sound of a gunshot. It contained raw terror mixed with total confusion. When I looked directly at Jordan instead of through the phone, his face appeared normal again. He was pale and intoxicated, but his features were unquestionably there. I raised the phone once more. Through its camera, the horrible, featureless face returned. The masked figures stopped moving, almost as though they were waiting for us to understand something. I switched to the phone's front-facing, camera, and nearly dropped it. Melissa and I looked abnormal on the screen. But behind us, the street was no longer Crawford Street. Through the phone, we appeared to be standing inside some kind of warehouse or factory. Rusted metal walls surrounded us, along with pieces of industrial machinery that I couldn't identify. The plague doctor tilted his head, almost as if the situation amused him. Then he raised his hands and removed his mask. Underneath it was an ordinary mask, the mask of an old man, perhaps in his late twenties, with facial stubble and exhausted eyes. One after another, the remaining figures also removed their masks. They were regular people of different ages and ethnic backgrounds, but every one of them wore the same weary, resigned expression. For the first time, the man who had worn the plague doctor mask spoke. His voice sounded rough, as though he had not used it for a long time. "He's already gone. He has been since you left the club." "What you're carrying is only an echo, and it's attracting them to this place. Every Halloween, they send out echoes wearing faces to search for specific people. You can continue dragging that thing with you, but it isn't your friend anymore." He removed an old flip phone, checked the time, and continued. "In approximately three minutes, that echo will walk back to wherever it came from. If you're still holding it when that happens, you'll be taken with it. We've been attempting to warn people for years." "What are you talking about?" "It's only a matter of time, but the masks are the only way we can recognize one another. They're also the only way we can travel through the spaces where the echoes hunt." Melissa sobbed and insisted that the entire thing was insane. Jordan was right in front of us. We could both see him, but I believed the man. Something deep inside me had been warning that everything was wrong from the moment we left the club. The man dressed as the plague doctor tossed a rubber Halloween mask toward me. It was a cheap werewolf mask, but it didn't make any sense to me. I couldn't help but wonder what was going on. "You're wearing a rubber mask. The kind sold at a dollar store. Put it on and look at your friend again," he instructed. "Then decide whether you still want to hold on." With trembling hands, I pulled the mask over my head. When I looked through its eye holes, Jordan had disappeared completely. In his place stood a column of static shaped like a human body, resembling television snow. Where his feet should have met the pavement, there was nothing at all, only vacant space. Even worse, I could see through the mask. There were thin, translucent strands extending from the static figure into Melissa and me. They were wrapped around our wrists like fishing line. The masked figures no longer looked human, either. Viewed through the werewolf mask, they resembled burn victims. Their skin was scarred and melted, with pieces of their bodies missing. Yet their eyes looked compassionate, almost desperate. "Sixty seconds," the man warned, although his voice now sounded distorted through the altered perception created by the mask. I could hear the voice of a man, but I couldn't hear created by my mask. it and run. Don't turn around. Don't go home tonight. And no matter what happens, don't respond if someone calls your name. Melissa and I released Jordan at exactly the same moment. As soon as we let go, the static figure straightened into a perfectly upright position without any assistance. It turned and began walking toward Crawford Street with rigid mechanical precision. We ran in the opposite direction. Our shoes struck wet pavement, even though I had no memory of the street being wet earlier. Behind us, I heard the masked people dispersing. Their footsteps faded as they fled in separate directions. We kept running for several blocks until we reached the 24-hour diner on Peachtree. It was filled with bright lights and ordinary people. Melissa collapsed into a booth, hyperventilating, while I called 911 and reported Jordan missing. The police located him three hours later. He was wandering around downtown in his ruined costume, and couldn't remember anything that had happened after midnight. Physically, he was fine, completely fine, except for one disturbing detail. Jordan insisted that he had spent the entire night at his parents' house in Ohio. He claimed he had never returned to campus after fall break. Security footage from the vault clearly showed him attending the party. However, every surveillance camera that should have recorded him on Crawford Street displayed nothing but static between 147 and 150 a.m. The most disturbing discovery came the following day when I developed the photographs from my camera. Every picture I had taken of the plague doctor inside the club showed a different person's face behind the mask, and in the background of every photograph, someone wearing an ordinary Halloween mask was always standing there, watching. Story 3. I had been counting the days until I could escape my hometown ever since my junior year of high school. When I finally arrived at State University, it felt as though I had entered an entirely different world. I had been there for approximately two months by the time Halloween arrived, and I was still the uncomfortable freshman who ate most of her meals alone in the dining hall. My roommate had returned home for the weekend, leaving me by myself with a mountain of homework and a bag of fun-sized Snickers that I had purchased for my own enjoyment. Story 4. On the afternoon of October 31st, I was sitting in the library, struggling to concentrate on my psychology textbook, when three girls from my English Literature class approached my table. We had completed a group project together several weeks earlier, but I wouldn't have described us as friends. We were merely the kind of acquaintances who smiled and waved whenever we crossed paths around campus. Ashley was the one who did most of the talking. She was a cheerful blonde who always wore designer clothes and somehow looked perfectly put together, even at 18. She leaned against my table and asked whether I had any plans for that evening. When I told her I didn't, her expression brightened as if she had just won a prize. She explained that they were attending an exclusive Halloween party at a house away from campus. According to her, several guests had cancelled at the last minute, so the host had specifically asked them to invite more people. The other two girls, whose names I believed were Chloe and Madison although I honestly couldn't remember with complete certainty, stood behind Ashley smiling and nodding along. Ashley showed me the address on her phone, 4782 Garrison Road, approximately 15 minutes from campus. She told me to arrive at 9 o'clock and said a costume wasn't necessary because the invitation had been so sudden. I remember feeling a small surge of excitement. I thought this might finally be my opportunity to enter the social world I had spent the past two months observing from the sidelines. At around 4 o'clock that afternoon, I left the library and began walking toward my dorm. That was when I noticed a man following behind me. He wore a grey hoodie with the hood pulled over his head, dark jeans, and a battered pair of red Converse sneakers that produced a strange squeak every few steps. Initially, I didn't think anything of it. The campus was almost always crowded. I took a detour through the student union to purchase a coffee. As soon as I entered the student union, I saw the same man walking perhaps thirty feet away. He had the same squeaking shoes and the same hunched posture, almost as though he were attempting to make himself appear smaller. I entered the campus bookstore and pretended to examine the university merchandise for at least ten minutes, watching the entrance from the corner of my eye. The man never came inside. When I eventually left, he had disappeared. I persuaded myself that I was being paranoid. He was probably another student who had coincidentally been walking in the same direction. That night, I spent far too much time preparing for the party. I changed my clothes three times before finally choosing black jeans and a vintage band t-shirt I had discovered at a thrift shop. The outfit seemed casual enough that I wouldn't appear to be trying too hard, while still looking appropriate for a party. My Uber driver initially had trouble locating the address. I traveled up and down Garrison Road twice before he finally noticed the house numbers concealed behind an overgrown hedge. The property was one of those modern rental houses that looked as if it belonged in a magazine. It was constructed with large sections of glass, sharp angles, and automatic lights that illuminated the driveway whenever someone approached. Music was pounding from somewhere inside, but there was something unusual about the windows. Heavy blackout curtains had been pulled tightly across every one of them. I didn't even notice them. There wasn't a single opening through which I could see the interior. Ashley's white BMW was parked outside, or at least I believed it was hers. It was the same model and had the same sorority sticker on the rear windshield. That reassured me enough to pay the driver and walk toward the front entrance. The door opened before I had an opportunity to knock. Madison stood there wearing cat ears and holding a red Solo cup. She greeted me with an enormous smile that never quite reached her eyes. The music was louder once I entered, but it wasn't loud in the way music normally is at a party. It sounded more like someone had started a playlist simply to prevent the house from becoming silent. Only about twelve people were scattered throughout the living room. It was nothing like the packed celebration I had expected. Ashley waved to me from across the room, where she was speaking with a man I didn't recognize. Chloe was nowhere in sight. The house had the cold, lifeless atmosphere common to rental properties. Generic artwork decorated the walls. There were no family photographs anywhere, and every piece of furniture had that aggressively neutral appearance designed to offend no one. Instead, it created the impression that no one truly lived there. Without asking what I wanted, Madison handed me a drink. It was pink, excessively sweet, and burned as I swallowed it. She began introducing me to people, but their names immediately escaped my memory. I was not sure what to do with it, but I thought it was a good idea to give it a go. I was not sure what to do with it, but I was not sure what to do with it, I was too preoccupied with trying to understand why everyone seemed to be observing me while carefully avoiding looking at me directly. Then I saw him. The man from earlier was leaning against the kitchen counter, using his thumbnail to peel the label from a beer bottle. He was still dressed in the same gray hoodie, and I could see his red Converse sneakers from the opposite side of the room. My entire body stiffened. I must have made some kind of sound because Madison suddenly seized my arm and asked whether I was all right. Her fingers pressed into my skin more forcefully than necessary. Attempting to sound casual, I asked who the man was. Madison looked confused and told me his name was Brandon. According to her, he was Ashley's cousin from out of town and had decided to join the party at the last moment. But there was a serious problem with that explanation. During our group project, Ashley had spent nearly half the time complaining about how she was an only child, without any cousins or extended friends. She had said it was only her and her divorced parents. I excused myself and asked where I could find the bathroom because I needed a moment to think. Madison directed me toward a hallway and said it was the final door on the right. She continued holding my arm as she spoke, almost as though she didn't want to release me. The hallway was much darker than it should have been. A single dim lightbulb glowed at the far end, and I passed three closed doors before reaching the bathroom. Once inside, I locked the door and immediately attempted to call my roommate. My phone had no signal. There wasn't even one bar, which made no sense because we were still within the city. I tried connecting to the Wi-Fi instead, but the only available network required a password, and its name consisted entirely of random numbers and letters. My heart was beating so violently that I could hear it inside my ears. I splashed cold water across my face and looked into the mirror. Something about my reflection seemed wrong. It was one of those two-way mirrors where the reflected image appears slightly dimmer and subtly unnatural. I moved closer to the glass and cupped my hands around my eyes. I swear I could distinguish the faint shape of another room beyond the mirror. At that moment, footsteps stopped directly outside the bathroom. Someone tested the handle and began shaking it after discovering that the door was locked. Is everything alright in there? The voice belonged to a man I didn't recognize, recognize. It definitely wasn't Brandon because I had heard him speaking to someone when I I passed the kitchen. The handle moved again, this time with greater force. Then I heard keys jingling. Keys. Why would anyone at a party possess a key to the bathroom? I frantically searched for another way out, but the only window was a tiny one positioned above the shower. It was barely large enough for a cat to pass through. Just a minute, I called, struggling to keep my voice from shaking. I opened the bathroom cabinet and searched for something, anything I could use to defend myself. The cabinet contained nothing except toilet paper and cleaning products. The sound of the keys stopped. It was replaced by hushed voices that I couldn't understand, followed by footsteps moving away from the bathroom. I waited another complete minute before cautiously opening the door. The hallway was empty. However, the three doors that had previously been closed were not open. I looked out the window, and I saw a now stood wide open. Beyond each doorway was a dark room that somehow felt as though it were watching me. I knew I needed to escape the house immediately. When I started walking back toward the living room, however, the house's layout seemed to have changed. The hallway felt longer than before, and I encountered a turn that I had no memory of taking when I first entered. The music had stopped completely. In its place was a quiet murmur of voices that sounded rehearsed, as if a group of people were singing. When I finally returned to the living room, everyone had changed positions. They were all seated in orderly rows, facing the front entrance as though they were waiting for something to begin. Ashley rose when she noticed me. The same bright smile remained fixed across her face as she announced to the room that I was ready. Ready for what? I attempted to move toward the front door, but two men I hadn't noticed earlier stepped in front of it. Both were larger than football players. I was surprised to find that the two men I had noticed earlier were the same. They crossed their arms and remained perfectly still. Brandon had left the kitchen and was now sitting on the arm of a couch. His red sneakers tapped against the floor in a steady rhythm that made my teeth ache. Your Uber already left, Ashley said as she approached me. She held up her phone and displayed the app, as if that proved something. But don't worry, we've arranged another ride for you. That was when I realized that everyone else was holding a phone as well. Every device was back on, and I could hear the phone ringing. I could hear the phone pointing directly at me. They were recording. The small red lights on the screens resembled eyes in the darkened living room, and I suddenly understood with absolute certainty that whatever they intended to do, they wanted to document it. I backed away until my body struck the wall, my thoughts racing through possible escape routes. There was the rear door, but I could see into the kitchen, where three additional people stood guard. Then there were the windows, but the blackout curtains had produced a sound. I couldn't hear anything, but I could hear the sound of the door opening. I could hear the door opening. Even if I managed to break through one, I had no idea what might be waiting on the opposite side. Madison and Chloe now stood on either side of Ashley. All three women advanced toward me with synchronized movements that made them resemble experienced hunters who had performed this routine before. We've been observing you for weeks, Ashley said. Her voice had changed. All the artificial sweetness had disappeared. You follow the same paths. You eat at the same places. You always sit in the same part of the library. You made everything so easy for us. I reacted with the only idea that came to mind. Beside me was a heavy ceramic lamp shaped like a pineapple. I grabbed it from the side table and hurled it directly through the front window. The glass shattered outward with an enormous crash. For one brief second, the sound disrupted their carefully rehearsed movements. That single second gave me my opportunity. I didn't run toward the window I had just broken. They would have expected me to do that. Instead, I charged directly at the two men blocking the front door while screaming as loudly as I could. It was a wild, primitive sound I had never known I was capable of producing. The men hesitated, probably because neither expected the quiet girl from the library to rush at them like a linebacker. At the final second, I dropped to the floor and slid between them across the polished surface. My knees struck the door painfully, but adrenaline is an incredible drug. I immediately pushed myself upright and fumbled with the deadbolt before either man could seize me. The door flew open, and I raced into the night without stopping my screams. The neighbors were what saved me. The house next door was hosting its own Halloween celebration, a genuine party attended by forty or fifty people. When they heard the window shatter and my scream sounding as if someone were murdering me, they poured out of the neighboring house. Brandon attempted to follow me through the front door but froze when he saw the crowd crossing the lawn. Several people already had their phones out and were calling 911. I collapsed in the neighbor's driveway, sobbing and attempting to explain what had happened. Fortunately, I didn't need to convince anyone. They could see Ashley and the rest of the group standing inside the doorway. Every one of them was still holding a phone, and they looked like children who had been caught doing something terrible. The police arrived within minutes. That was when the truth began unraveling rapidly. The house was an Airbnb that had been rented using a stolen credit card. Ashley and the other two women weren't actually students at State University. Brandon's real name was Colin. He had a criminal record for assault and was violating his parole simply by being in the state. The police discovered hidden cameras installed throughout the house. They were broadcasting footage to a website I don't even want to know anything about. The entire setup was apparently part of some depraved streaming game in which viewers paid to watch staged situations involving unsuspecting victims. The officers told me I had been fortunate. Two other women from different colleges had reported similar incidents during that same month, but the authorities had been unable to prove anything because the people responsible always cleaned the locations and vanished. This time, however, they had become careless. They had grown too confident. They are all in prison now. I was required to testify during the trial, which became a different kind of nightmare, but at least the ordeal is finally over. I completed my freshman year, although I transferred to another dorm and now change the routes I take everywhere I go. Even today, hearing squeaking shoes makes me feel physically sick, and I certainly never accept party invitations from people I don't know well. But I survived, and that is what matters. Sometimes survival is the only thing you can do. You survive, and then you make certain those bastards never have the opportunity to do the same thing to anyone else. Story 4 Halloween night in 2018 will always remain in my memory, as the evening I discovered just how exposed we can be inside our own homes. I was 27 years old and living with my girlfriend Vanessa. In a small two-bedroom rental house in Springfield, Massachusetts. We had been together for approximately three years, and our lives were comfortably ordinary. I worked as an insurance adjuster, while Vanessa was a dental hygienist. Most evenings we cooked dinner together and watched terrible reality television until we eventually fell asleep on the couch. The house itself was unremarkable. It was one of those nearly identical homes constructed during the 1970s, with thin walls and floors that were built in the middle of the house. I was the only one who could see the house that creaked whenever anyone moved across them. Still, for the time being, it belonged to us. Halloween fell on a Wednesday that year. Vanessa had been eager to try a new Italian restaurant that had recently opened downtown, so we had made reservations several weeks beforehand. I remember that she wore a deep purple dress she had been saving for a special occasion. I had even ironed a button-down shirt for once, something she teased me about throughout the day. I was a bit nervous, but I had to admit that I didn't know what to do. Children were beginning to go from door to door. Because we wouldn't be home to distribute candy, I switched off the porch light before we left. Dinner was incredible. We had homemade pasta, wine that was probably far beyond what our budget could comfortably afford, and a tiramisu Vanessa repeatedly said she wanted to learn how to make at home. The restaurant had a warm, intimate atmosphere with dim lighting and artificial cobwebs hung around the room for Halloween. Our waiter wore a pair of vampire fangs that kept slipping whenever he spoke, making both of us laugh every time he returned to our table. We remained there longer than expected, probably until around 9.30. It was pleasant simply enjoying each other's company without our phones or the television demanding our attention. The trip home, lasted about 15 minutes. By then the streets were nearly deserted. Most of the trick-or-treaters had returned home, and the neighborhood had settled into that unsettling silence that comes after Halloween celebrations end. Decoration still moved in people's yards, swaying in the night air, but there were no people anywhere in sight. As we entered our driveway, I noticed that the house next door was completely dark. That was unusual. Our neighbor, old Mr. Vasquez, normally remained awake late into the night watching police procedural shows with the television volume turned far too high. Vanessa was humming a song from the restaurant's playlist as we approached our front entrance. I searched my jacket pocket for the keys while thinking that I would definitely need antacids before bed after eating so much rich food. The first thing I noticed when I opened the door was the smell. It wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it was distinctive. It smelled like someone had been eating inexpensive chocolate mixed with the sour gummy candy children seem to love. I stepped into the house and switched on the living room light. For several seconds, my mind struggled to understand what I was looking at. Candy wrappers were scattered everywhere, and when I say everywhere, I mean it literally. There were Snickers wrappers across the coffee table, empty Kit Kat packages lying on the couch, and little fun-sized Milky Way wrappers spread over the area rug like confetti. My first thought was that we might have left a window open and that an unusually bold raccoon had entered the house. We had experienced problems before with raccoons digging through our trash, so it didn't seem completely impossible. Then I noticed the back door. It led to our tiny excuse for a backdoor. The door hadn't been forced or left completely wide open. It simply looked as though someone had stepped outside briefly and forgotten to shut it properly. Vanessa entered behind me and immediately gripped my arm. Her fingernails dug into the sleeve of my jacket. What the hell, she whispered. I could hear a slight tremor in her voice. I told her to remain beside the front entrance while I investigated. I attempted to see if she could hear me. sound much more confident than I actually felt. Carefully, I crossed the living room, stepping around the discarded wrappers while listening for anything unusual. The house was old enough that it was impossible to walk through it silently. Every step produced a soft creak from the floorboards, making it even more difficult to hear any other sounds. The back door was unquestionably unlocked. Its deadbolt had been rotated into the open position, meaning someone had unlocked it from inside rather than forcing their way through it. That detail remained with me because I have always been obsessive about securing doors. I knew with absolute certainty that I had checked the back door before Vanessa and I left for dinner. Using my foot, I pushed it farther open and looked into the backyard. There was nothing outside except darkness and the vague outlines of our pathetic attempt at a garden, most of which had died by September. The motion-activated light we had installed the previous spring should have illuminated the yard, but it remained dark. Then I saw that the bulb was missing from its socket. Someone had unscrewed it. At that moment, the situation stopped feeling like a stupid prank carried out by neighborhood children. It began to feel deliberate, like someone had prepared for this. I stepped back inside and locked the rear door, sliding the deadbolt into place as quietly as possible. That was when I saw a light on the door. I saw a light on the door. I saw a light spilling beneath the guest room door at the end of the hallway. We never used that bedroom for guests. It was essentially a storage room containing boxes of Vanessa's college textbooks, my old golf clubs that I continually promised myself I would use again, winter clothing, plastic containers, and other miscellaneous belongings. The room had a weak overhead fixture operated by a pull chain. We almost never switched it on because there was never any reason to enter the room. A wave of adrenaline swept through the room, and I was in shock. My hearing suddenly seemed sharper, and every muscle in my body tightened as though I were preparing either to fight or to run. I gestured for Vanessa to remain behind me. Near the back entrance, we kept a heavy maglite flashlight. I picked it up, not because I required additional illumination, but because it was the closest object within reach that could serve as a weapon. When I was approximately ten feet from the guest room door, I heard it, breathing. It wasn't loud or strained. It was the soft, steady sound of someone making an intense effort to remain completely motionless and silent. The breathing came from inside the guest room. Whoever was hiding there wasn't entirely successful at remaining quiet. Each time the person exhaled, I heard a faint whistling sound, as though their nose was congested or they had recently been running. My thoughts rushed through every conceivable explanation. Perhaps it was a wrong house and decided to hide. Maybe it was a homeless person who had discovered a way inside and was only attempting to escape the cold night. It could have been someone under the influence of drugs who didn't even understand where they were. Then I heard a small mechanical buzzing sound, like a phone vibrating while set to silent. The breathing ceased instantly. The person in that room had just received a message or notification. They now knew we had returned, and they probably understood that we had heard them. The silence afterward was more terrifying than the breathing. It meant the intruder was listening for us with the same intensity with which we were listening for them. Despite my warning, Vanessa had moved closer. She stood perhaps five feet behind me, holding her phone with the 911 screen already open and her thumb suspended above the call button. The light from the screen illuminated her face. She was pale, with her jaw tightly clenched. Her eyes were wide but focused. I remember thinking about the absurdity of the situation. We were standing in our own hallway, inside our own home, terrified of a door we had opened and closed hundreds of times. I raised my voice and attempted to sound authoritative, although the words came out shakier than I intended. We've already called the police, I said. They're on their way. You need to come out right now. It was an obvious bluff, but I couldn't think of anything else to do. For approximately ten seconds, there was no response. Then I heard movement from within the room. The footsteps weren't approaching the door. Instead, they shuffled away from us, toward the window on the opposite side of the room. I knew that window was extremely difficult to open. Its wooden frame had warped over the years, and because we rarely used the guest room, we had never bothered to repair it. That meant the intruder probably hadn't entered through the window. They had most likely come through the rear door and were now trapped unless they were willing to confront us directly. From inside, I heard the person struggling with the window. Wood scraped loudly against wood as they attempted to force the frame upward. Call them, Vanessa whispered urgently behind me. Actually, call them right now. I heard her fingers tapping across the screen. She spoke to the 911 dispatcher in a low, controlled voice, provided our address, and explained that an intruder was still inside our home. We could hear the person moving. She said, The dispatcher instructed her to leave the house immediately, avoid confronting the intruder, and wait outside for the responding officers. Vanessa simply answered, Okay, but didn't move at all. Both of us remained frozen in the hallway, trapped in a horrible moment of indecision. Should we run outside and allow the intruder to escape, or should we remain where we were and potentially keep them trapped until the police arrived? The window finally opened, and the intruder was able to escape. I finally gave way with a sharp crack, followed by the sound of it sliding upward. I made a split-second decision. I rushed toward the guest room door and threw it open. The weak overhead fixture, which was already on, illuminated the entire room. What I saw has remained burned into my memory ever since. A man stood beside the window with one leg already outside. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties and wore a stained gray hoodie with jeans that were too large for him. He turned and looked directly at me. His face — God, his face — was completely ordinary. He had brown hair, uneven stubble, and dark circles under his eyes, as though he hadn't slept in several days. He didn't resemble a masked monster or some visibly deranged lunatic. He simply looked exhausted, desperate, and caught. Our eyes met for perhaps two seconds, but the moment felt much longer. What I saw in his expression disturbed me more than aggression would have. He appeared to be disappointed, like a child caught doing something they already knew was wrong. Additional candy wrappers were scattered around his feet. Our desk chair had been moved across the room and positioned so that it faced the door. Apparently, the man had been sitting there, eating Halloween candy and listening to us standing on the other side. An unzipped backpack rested beside the chair. Inside it, I could see what appeared to be Vanessa's jewelry box, along with the laptop I had left on the desk in our bedroom. The man didn't speak. He stared at me for one more second before pulling his other leg through the window and dropping into the backyard. I heard the impact when he landed, followed by the noise of him scrambling over our chain-link fence and entering the alley behind the house. I ran to the window and looked outside, but he had already disappeared into the darkness separating the neighboring homes. My entire body shook, not entirely from fear but from a mixture of adrenaline, anger, and the strange relief that he was gone and hadn't heard either of us. Vanessa appeared in the doorway while still speaking with the dispatcher. She looked into the guest room and saw the chair positioned directly toward the door. I watched her expression change. She understood immediately what I had just realized. The man had been sitting there, listening to us. He might have remained in that chair for several minutes before we even knew he was present. Perhaps he heard us enter the house and speak in the living room while he sat silently in the dark, trying to decide what he should do. That realization made me feel violated in a way the stolen belongings never could. The police arrived approximately two hours later. Approximately six minutes later, it felt like an eternity, although we were later told that it was a relatively quick response time for our neighborhood. Two officers entered the house. One was an older man who looked as though he had witnessed every kind of crime imaginable. The other was a younger woman who appeared genuinely attentive to everything we described. They searched the entire house room by room. They examined the window through which the man had escaped, inspected the rear door, and looked at the empty socket where the motion lights bulb had been removed. The older officer, whose name was Officer Dennings, said the intruder had probably been watching our house. He likely knew we had gone out for the evening and, judging by the quantity of discarded candy wrappers, had probably been inside for at least an hour. Officer Dennings pointed out that the man appeared to have consumed between twenty and thirty pieces of candy. Eating that much required time. He had also clearly searched our bedroom because my laptop had been placed inside the backpack. The younger officer's name tag read "Alvarez." She was the one who asked the question that caused everything to fall into place. "How did he enter? Was the back door unlocked when you left?" "No," I told her, "absolutely not. I'm obsessive about locking the house." Officer Alvarez returned to the back entrance and inspected it more closely with a flashlight. When she came back, her expression had become serious. "There's no evidence of forced entry," she explained. "No scratches around the lock and no damage to the door frame. Whoever entered this house had a key." Her statement struck me like a blow to the chest. A key. My thoughts immediately turned to everyone who had ever been given access to our house. There was the landlord, naturally, as well as the maintenance worker who had repaired our water heater the previous spring. We had provided Vanessa's sister with a spare for emergencies. But she lived two hours away, and we had seen her only the previous weekend. I had also loaned a key to our friend Austin when Vanessa and I went on vacation in July. He had used it to water the plants and collect our mail. Austin had returned it, or at least I believed he had. Vanessa was mentally reviewing the same list. I could see anxiety growing in her eyes. Officer Alvarez told us to write down the name of every person who had ever possessed a key, even temporarily. She also instructed us to contact the landlord and ask whether anyone else had access to the spare keys he maintained. The officers photographed everything, collected several candy wrappers as evidence in case the intruder was arrested and they needed to connect him to the scene, and provided us with a case number. Officer Dennings was direct with us. He said we needed to replace every lock immediately, first thing the following morning. He also strongly recommended installing a security lock on the door frame. and provided us with a case number. He also strongly recommended installing a security system. Before leaving, Officer Alvarez told us that burglaries in our neighborhood had increased slightly during the previous month. Every earlier burglary had occurred while the residents were away. None had involved violence, and most consisted only of theft. Ours was the first incident in which the homeowner returned while the intruder remained inside. It was also the first case without any evidence of forced entry. That made our case unusual. We were fortunate in the worst possible sense. After the officers departed, neither Vanessa nor I slept. We pushed our dresser in front of the bedroom door, switched on every light in the house, and left. At approximately three o'clock in the morning, I remembered something that made my skin turn cold. When we had moved into the house two years earlier, the landlord mentioned that the previous tenant had left unexpectedly. It had apparently involved a bad breakup, and there had been some uncertainty about whether every copy of the house key had been returned. At the time, the information had seemed unimportant. Now it felt extremely significant, and I had no idea what had happened. The following morning, exhausted and paranoid, I telephoned a locksmith before I even made coffee. He arrived later that same day and replaced every lock on the property: the front entrance, the back door, and even the side gate. The work cost us nearly $400, but I didn't care. We also contacted Vanessa's sister and Austin to confirm whether they still possessed their keys or had returned them. Both verified that everything was accounted for. Austin even drove to our house and told us that they had returned all their keys, and that they had returned all their keys to us. After a few hours, we were able to get back to our home. We were able to get back to our home. Austin even drove to our house that afternoon and physically showed me the key. I had completely forgotten that he had returned it and that I had hung it on our key rack. Reaching the landlord proved more difficult. When I finally spoke with him, he admitted that he had once possessed six copies of the house key and couldn't explain where all of them had gone. That revelation infuriated me, but it also brought a strange sense of relief. At least we now had a plausible explanation for how the intruder had entered. The police never arrested him, and honestly, I don't believe they devoted much effort to finding him. No one had been injured. Nothing irreplaceable was taken because the man abandoned the backpack when he escaped. The police had more serious cases demanding their attention. Three months later, Vanessa and I terminated our lease and moved into an apartment complex with genuine security, including surveillance cameras throughout the hallways. We both agreed that we could not continue to live there after learning that someone had sat silently inside our guest room, eating candy and listening to our lives unfold on the opposite side of the door. Even now, the theft itself isn't what troubles me most. Neither is the danger we might have faced. What continues to disturb me is the memory of that chair positioned toward the door, surrounded by all those wrappers, and the knowledge that the intruder had remained there long enough to become comfortable. The man was not rushing. He wasn't panicking. He was simply waiting. If we had returned home even thirty minutes earlier, or if he had chosen to leave that room and confront us instead of hiding, I have no idea what might have happened. Sometimes I wonder whether he was truly a random man who had acquired one of the old keys or whether he was the previous tenant, someone who had never entirely left us alone. Either way, I check every lock twice before going to sleep. I do it every second. That's when I realize that I'm not alone. I'm not alone. I'm not alone. I'm not alone. I'm not alone. I'm not alone. I'm not alone. I'm not alone. I'm not alone. I'm not alone. I'm not alone. Story 5: Halloween used to be the holiday I loved more than any other. I wasn't just casually interested in it. I was completely obsessed. I started planning my costume in August, mapped out the streets with the best candy, and took the entire night far more seriously than any reasonable person should have. I was 14 in October 2015 and lived with my mother and younger brother in a suburb outside Portland, Oregon. Our street, Oakmont Drive, was one of those postcard-perfect neighborhoods where residents actually knew one another's names and regularly borrowed lawn equipment from each other. Nearly every house made an enormous effort for Halloween. There were carved pumpkins, artificial cobwebs, and many other things that made Halloween feel like it was an inflatable ghost that looked absurd during daylight hours. Every house participated except one. Number 447 stood approximately five doors away from ours. It was a single-story ranch house with faded blue siding and belonged to a man everyone simply called Mr. Henley. He had lived on Oakmont Drive longer than anyone could remember. He kept to himself and had never caused any noticeable trouble. However, there was something strange about his behavior every Halloween. Without exception, Mr. Henley decorated his front porch. His display was never particularly elaborate, usually two carved pumpkins, several strands of orange lights, and a wreath hanging from the front door. It was enough to make his house appear welcoming and involved in the neighborhood celebration. But if you climbed the porch steps and knocked, he never responded. The house would remain completely silent. The interior lights were always on, and the flickering glow of a television could be seen through the window. Mr. Henley was a great man, and he was a great man. He was a great man, and he was a great man. He was a great man. He was a great man. He was a great man. He was a great man. He was a great man. He was a great man. He was a great man. He was a great man. He was a great man. He was a great man. He was a great man. He was a great man. He was a great man. He was a great man. Yet Mr. Henley never opened the door. Most neighborhood children learned to avoid his house after trying it once. Over time, skipping number 447 became an unspoken tradition. Groups of trick-or-treaters would pass the property without even slowing down. The situation always bothered me. Why would someone put up decorations if he had no intention of giving out candy? Why deliberately make the house appear inviting and then ignore everyone who approached? My friend Troy believed Mr. Henley was doing it intentionally. Troy was a skinny, red-headed kid who lived to create trouble. His theory was that Mr. Henley's Halloween display was some kind of psychological experiment designed to frustrate people. Troy's older brother Dylan was 17. He had a driver's license and considered himself attractive because he could grow a thin, patchy beard. That October, Dylan announced that he was going to teach the antisocial old man a lesson. He recruited Troy, me, and a girl from our grade named Amber, who had earned a reputation for being afraid of practically nothing. The idea was simple, the usual stupid behavior you would expect from teenagers. On Halloween night, we would go to Mr. Henley's property, throw toilet paper into his trees, perhaps smash one of his pumpkins, ring the doorbell repeatedly, and run away. It was supposed to be a harmless prank, nothing extreme. Even then, the idea was that Mr. The idea made me uncomfortable, the others to think I was frightened, especially Amber, so I agreed to participate. Halloween night arrived with that ideal autumn chill in the air. Oakmont Drive was crowded with families. Young children in princess costumes walked hand in hand with their parents, while teenagers wandered around in lazy outfits they had clearly assembled at the last minute. At around 8.30, after most of the youngest trick-or-treaters had returned home, Dylan collected us in his battered Jeep Cherokee. Troy sat in the passenger seat, practically vibrating with excitement. He kept insisting that the prank was going to become legendary. Amber sat in the back beside me, scrolling through her phone. She looked bored but willing to go along with whatever happened. Dylan parked two streets away, and we continued on foot with rolls of toilet paper concealed inside our jacket pockets. The closer we came to Oakmont Drive, the quieter everything became. Porch lights were being switched off one by one, and the energy of Halloween was fading as the night came to an end. When we arrived at Mr. Henley's house, his decorations looked exactly as they had every previous year. Two jack-o'-lanterns rested on the porch steps, their triangular eyes illuminated by candles. Orange string lights outlined the frame of the front door. A light glowed in the living room, and through the thin curtains I could see the bluish flicker of the television. Everything appeared ordinary. It even seemed simple. That was what made Dylan's next words sound so out of place. Look at that, he whispered, pointing toward the edge of the roof above the porch. Initially, I couldn't see what he meant. Then Amber noticed it. A small black device had been installed beneath the eave and angled downward toward the path leading to the house. Is that a camera? she asked. All four of us stared at it. There was no question about what it was. It was one of those small security cameras, aimed directly at the sidewalk and front walkway. Paranoid old bastard, Dylan muttered. He was smiling as though the camera made the prank even more exciting. Troy suggested that we approach from the side yard, where the camera wouldn't be able to record us. We crept around the right side of the house. A tall wooden fence separated Mr. Henley's property from the home next door. It was much darker there. The only visible features were a small side window with closed blinds and a motion-activated light that fortunately didn't switch on. Dylan began unrolling the toilet paper in preparation for throwing it over the fence and into the trees in the front yard. That was when Troy saw something that made him seize my arm hard enough to hurt. Dude, he hissed. There's another one. He pointed toward the corner of the house near the foundation. A second camera smaller than the one over the porch had been concealed in the shadows where the siding met the concrete. This was aimed along the side of the property, covering the exact place where we were standing. My stomach tightened. Why would anyone need surveillance cameras covering the side of their house? Dylan attempted to remain calm. He said plenty of homeowners had security systems, but the arrogance had disappeared from his voice. Amber wanted to leave. She repeatedly said the entire situation was disturbing and that we should simply go home. Troy, as stubborn as ever, refused to respond. He insisted we had already come too far to become frightened by a few cameras. He moved toward the rear of the house while remaining close to the wall. Like complete idiots, the rest of us followed. Mr. Henley's backyard was small and surrounded by the same tall wooden fence. It contained a concrete patio and a rusted barbecue grill that appeared not to have been used in years. A sliding glass entrance led into what I assume was the kitchen. Beside it was a conventional door with a small window. It was a small window with a small window and a small window with a small window near the top. The backyard was entirely dark except for one thing. A third camera had been installed at the rear corner of the house, pointed directly across the yard. A small red light blinked on its casing. Troy and I noticed it at the same moment. For several seconds, no one spoke. We simply stood in the man's backyard, slowly understanding that every possible angle of his property was being recorded. Then Dylan, desperate to preserve his image as the fearless older brother, did the stupidest thing he could possibly have done. He walked directly to the back door and knocked loudly. The sound echoed through the quiet night. All of us tensed expecting Mr. Henley to switch on an outside light or shouted us to leave his property. Nothing happened. Dylan knocked a second time, much harder. It was the kind of aggressive pounding that should have awakened anyone inside. Still, there was no response. He's definitely home, he said. The sound echoed through the front door. We could even hear it from the backyard. The faint muffled voices of whatever program was playing. Dylan tested the handle. The door was locked, unsurprisingly. Then he pressed his hands around his face and looked through the small window at the top. He became completely motionless. What? Troy asked. What can you see? Dylan didn't answer immediately. He said, I can't see anything. I can't see anything. When he finally stepped away from the window, his face looked pale even in the darkness. There are papers, he said quietly. They're everywhere. They're covering the walls. Before any of us could fully understand what he meant, Troy pushed past him and peered through the window. Holy shit, he whispered. They're printouts. I think they're photographs. I didn't want to look. Every instinct in my body was screaming at me to leave the property, return home, and forget the entire foolish plan. But curiosity can be a terrible force. I stepped forward and pressed my face against the cold glass. The kitchen was dimly illuminated by light coming from another room, but I could still see enough. Printed photographs covered the walls. There were hundreds of them, possibly thousands, overlapping one another like scales on a fish. Every visible surface had been covered by an obsessive collage that made my head hurt when I tried to understand what was going on. I couldn't see anything. I couldn't understand it. From what I could distinguish, the images showed Oakmont Drive. Our street. The photographs had been taken during different seasons and at different times of day. I recognized Mrs. Palmer's garden as it had appeared the previous spring. I saw the Johnson family's car, which they had sold months earlier. And there were people. Children walking toward the school bus stop. Parents pushing strollers. Teenagers riding bicycles. Every photograph had been taken from a distance, like surveillance footage. Then my attention settled on one image that was clearer and closer than most of the others. It showed three children wearing Halloween costumes, apparently from the previous year. One child was dressed as a vampire, another as a witch, and the third as a skeleton. They were walking past Mr. Henley's property, probably heading toward houses that actually distributed candy. The image had been enlarged enough for their faces to be clearly visible. I recognized the vampire. It was Troy's younger sister, Kayla. She had been nine years old the previous Halloween. We have to call the police, Amber said. Her voice was trembling now, and she had already taken out her phone. Before she could dial, we heard something moving inside the house. It didn't sound exactly like footsteps. It sounded more like a heavy object being dragged slowly across the floor. All four of us stepped away from the door at the same time. Troy grabbed Dylan's arm and began pulling him toward the side of the house, back in the direction from which we had entered. Then I noticed Dylan staring at something. Where's Troy? He asked. For a moment, the question didn't make sense. I turned around. Troy was standing directly beside Dylan. He had just been pulling on his arm. Dylan wasn't looking at Troy, however. He was staring beyond the rest of us, toward the rear fence. Not Troy, he said, his voice suddenly flat and unfamiliar. The other kid. The one who was just standing beside the grill. Cold fluttered my entire body. There were only four of us in that yard. Dylan, Troy, Amber, and me. No one else had come with us. What are you talking about? Amber demanded. She had begun searching the yard as well, moving the flashlight on her phone wildly from side to side. Dylan insisted that he had seen another person. He described a shorter figure, perhaps five feet tall, dressed in dark clothing and standing near the barbecue while the rest of us were looking through the window. Dylan had assumed one of us had stepped away from the group. We fled from the backyard as though our lives depended on it. As I passed through the gate, I struck my shin against the corner of the fence so hard that bright spots flashed across my vision. I didn't stop running. None of us stopped until we reached the driveway. We stood there struggling to breathe, repeatedly counting to confirm that only the four of us were present. Dylan continued insisting that he had seen someone near the grill. He described a person approximately five feet tall wearing a dark hoodie. Troy accused him of being paranoid. He claimed Dylan had merely seen a shadow and frightened himself. But I had seen Dylan's expression in the backyard. He wasn't someone who became frightened easily. In that moment he had looked genuinely scared. He had seen Dylan's expression in the backyard. He wasn't someone confused, as though his mind couldn't reconcile what his eyes had shown him. We remained inside the Jeep for nearly 20 minutes, arguing about what to do. Amber wanted to call the police immediately and report the photographs and cameras. Troy was afraid we would be punished for trespassing. Dylan had become completely silent. He gripped the steering wheel and stared through the windshield. Eventually, I persuaded everyone that we should at least tell our parents and allow the adults to decide how the situation should be reported. We agreed to return home and determine the proper course of action the following day. Dylan drove everyone back to their houses. When I arrived home, my mother was sitting in the living room watching television. I nearly told her everything immediately, but the words wouldn't leave my throat. How was I supposed to explain that we had discovered something horrible while attempting to vandalize a neighbor's property? I barely slept. Whenever I shut my eyes, I saw those photographs. Layered across the kitchen walls and imagined all those unaware people being documented while living their ordinary lives. The following morning, a Sunday, my mother woke me earlier than usual. Her expression was so serious that my chest tightened before she even spoke. Did you see Troy last night? She asked. I told her that I had. I said we had all spent Halloween together. She sat on the edge of my bed and took a breath. His mother just called. He never came home. The room seemed to spin around me. I told her that couldn't be true. Dylan had dropped Troy at his house at approximately 10.30, just as he had done with the rest of us. My mother explained that Troy's mom had remained awake waiting for him, but he had never entered the house. His phone went directly to voicemail. His parents had already contacted the police. I dressed without really understanding what I was doing, and my mother drove me to Troy's house. Two police vehicles were already in the house. Troy's parents looked devastated. His mother sat crying on the porch while his father spoke with the officers. The police questioned me. When had I last seen Troy? Had he mentioned going anywhere else? Had he seemed troubled or behaved differently? I answered as much as I could without admitting where we had actually been. I told them we had only been walking around the neighborhood. One officer recorded everything in a small notebook. His expression remained professionally neutral while he asked whether Troy had experienced difficulties at school or at home. The standard questions asked when investigators suspect a teenager might have run away. By that afternoon, I couldn't remain silent any longer. I called Amber and told her we needed to tell someone about Mr. Henley's house and everything we had discovered inside. She had reached the same conclusion. We decided to speak with her older sister, who was 22 and worked as a paralegal. We broke up. We broke up with her sister, who was 22 and worked as a paralegal. We believed she would understand how to handle the information properly. When we explained everything and showed her the exact location of the house on Oakmont Drive, her expression became grim. She didn't scold us for trespassing. Instead, she made us repeat every detail twice. Then she immediately called a detective hotline she had saved in her phone because of her work. Within an hour, six police vehicles were parked along our street. I watched through my bedroom window as officers surrounded Mr. Henley's property. Then I heard the door open and struck the front door with that unmistakable official police knock. When he failed to respond, several officers went around to the back of the house. I couldn't see what happened next. Within 30 minutes, however, the police led Mr. Henley outside in handcuffs. He was smaller than I had imagined. He was balding and wore a cardigan that made him resemble someone's retired grandfather. He didn't resist or shout. He looked resigned, almost as though he had always known this day would eventually arrive. Additional police officers appeared. They began removing boxes from the house containing computer equipment, hard drives, and file folders. Everyone on Oakmont Drive came outside to watch. No one could believe what was happening. Mr. Henley, the quiet neighbor who had always kept to himself, was being arrested in front of the entire community. The complete story emerged over the next several days through news reports and neighborhood gossip. Police discovered more than 30 cases of murder. Mr. Mr. Henley, the quiet neighbor who had always kept to himself, was being i don't immediately recognize carries a new weight trust is fragile sometimes monsters don't conceal themselves in the darkness sometimes they live five doors away and politely wave when they see you checking the mail story six november 1st 2023 began like any other morning following halloween except i couldn't stop replaying what had happened the previous night i'm 17 and a senior at lincoln high school in pennsylvania i had been looking forward to having the entire house to myself for once my mother and father had to attend a wedding in philadelphia for some second cousin i had never even met and they weren't expected to return until late that night they repeatedly asked whether i wanted them to remain home and whether i would be comfortable spending halloween alone honestly i was delighted by the idea having no parents around meant i could play online with my friends order any food i wanted and avoid spending the evening giving candy to screaming children i had been working part-time at best buy after school to save money for a car and i was exhausted a peaceful evening by myself sounded perfect our neighborhood in harrisburg wasn't exactly a major destination for trick-or-treaters anyway most parents drove their children to the newer subdivisions where the homes had been built closer together we lived on road where every property had a long driveway and the houses stood far back from the street it was ideal for privacy and i believed ideal for the quiet evening i wanted at approximately 7 30 just as darkness was settling over the neighborhood someone knocked for the first time i was in the middle of a raid in destiny 2 wearing my headset and completely absorbed in the game the knock was loud enough to penetrate my headphones which irritated me because my team was about to defeat a boss i muted my microphone and shouted toward the front entrance without leaving my chair we're not giving out candy this year because i had stopped paying attention to the game my character died i cursed quietly under my breath then the knocking returned it was louder and much more persistent i removed my headset and listened carefully the rhythm was unusual three rapid knocks a pause and then two slower ones it wasn't the impatient pounding of an excited child there was something deliberate about it almost as if it were a coded signal i pushed away from the desk i had set up as a gaming station in the living room and walked toward the front hallway our entrance was long with the main door positioned at the far end a narrow window stood beside it the porch light was off because we weren't participating in halloween through the frosted glass panel i could distinguish several shapes there were two people possibly three there were two people possibly three there were two people possibly three they wore masks and appeared to be adults based on their height i assumed they were probably older teenagers or high school students hoping to get some free candy i didn't open the entrance instead i called through the closed door sorry but we aren't handing out candy tonight i attempted to imitate the authoritative voice my father used whenever he wanted solicitors to leave my words sounded stronger than i actually felt a long pause followed perhaps 10 seconds of absolute silence i thought they had gone then a woman spoke from the other side her voice was muffled by the door but sounded warm and friendly oh we're not trick-or-treating honey we're the buchanans from the house across the street we're collecting donations for the community center's halloween fund just a few dollars if you have anything to spare i had lived there my entire life and didn't know anyone named buchanan the house directly opposite ours had been vacant for three months ever since old mr garrett died his children were still arguing over the estate or something along those lines my mother had mentioned it before i remained there with my hand resting on the doorknob while an uneasy pressure developed inside my chest the intelligent response would have been to decline and walk away however i was worried about appearing impolite i thought they might be new residents i hadn't met and i didn't want to become the rude teenager who refused to help people attempting to support the community um i don't really have any cash i said through the entrance that was true i had perhaps six dollars in my wallet upstairs maybe you could return when my parents are home the woman responded again something about her voice had changed it no longer sounded naturally friendly her tone seemed rehearsed as if she were reciting lines from a script that's all right sweetie do you have venmo we can accept the donation digitally we're also distributing flyers about the event could you open the door for just a second so i can hand you one every instinct in my body suddenly screamed at me not to do it my girlfriend veronica and i had been together for eight months she frequently joked that i was much too trusting and would probably invite a serial killer inside if the person asked politely enough i remembered her saying that and took a step away from the entrance you know what i'm actually not allowed to open the door while my parents aren't home i replied attempting to sound relaxed but thank you anyway the silence that followed felt oppressive and uncomfortable the shapes remained visible through the frosted panel they weren't leaving they simply stood there then they repeated the same sequence three quick knocks followed by two slow ones this time they struck the door with enough force to make the entire frame shake my heart began beating so powerfully that my ears rang i backed farther into the hallway increasing the distance between myself and the entrance i really can't help you tonight i shouted my voice broke slightly on the final word and i hated how frightened i sounded through the side window i saw the figures finally move they turned away and descended the porch steps relief swept through me so suddenly that i became dizzy they had only been overly persistent fundraisers i told myself they were irritating but ultimately harmless i even laughed at myself for becoming so frightened i returned to my gaming station replaced my headset and rejoined the voice chat with my friends dude where did you go carlos asked some weird people came to the door i answered trying to make the encounter sound insignificant halloween attracts all the crazy ones we continued playing for approximately another hour and i mostly stopped thinking about what had happened at around nine o'clock i ordered a pepperoni and jalapeno pizza something my mother would never allow because she always said it was too greasy i was completing the online payment when i heard the sound again the same knock three rapid strikes followed by two slow ones i tore off my headset so quickly that it fell against the desk with a clatter the knocking continued in that patient measured rhythm as though whoever stood outside had unlimited time on this occasion i felt more anger than fear what part of the word no did these people not understand i marched toward the entrance fully prepared to be much less courteous and looked through the people we had installed high on the door three people stood on the porch each wore one of the inexpensive rubber masks sold at spirit halloween one was a werewolf another a zombie and the third appeared to be a screaming ghost face all of them faced the door and stood completely motionless almost as if they were posing for a photograph they were unquestionably adults they were tall and broad-shouldered dressed in dark clothing that wasn't part of any recognizable costume the way they remained perfectly still without fidgeting speaking or acknowledging one another caused my anger to disappear instantly normal people don't stand that motionless we're still collecting for the community center the woman said this time she made no effort to sound welcoming her voice was flat and almost bored we know you're alone in there your parents won't return until late my entire body stiffened how did they know that how could they know my parents were gone i hadn't specifically told them that they would be away until late i moved back from the door as silently as possible my socks making no sound against the hardwood floor my phone remained on the desk in the living room i needed to call 9-1-1 my parents or anyone who could help as i turned to retrieve it i heard something that made me stop breathing footsteps they weren't coming from the porch someone was moving around the side of the house deliberately crushing the dry leaves my father had been too lazy to rake the previous weekend they were circling the property i crept toward the living room window overlooking the driveway and carefully lifted one edge of the curtain the person wearing the werewolf mask was looking through the window of my father's office on the side of the house they had pressed both hands around the mask's face to block the surrounding light and see inside more clearly then the person tested the window moving it gently to determine whether it was locked it was my father was extremely cautious about locking windows and doors still watching someone actively attempt to enter your home while you're standing inside creates a kind of terror unlike anything i had experienced before my legs weakened until i thought they might collapse beneath me i allowed the curtain to fall back into position and practically crawled toward my desk. With trembling fingers, I grabbed my phone and dialed 911. 911, what is your emergency? The dispatcher's voice was calm and professional. Hearing another human being almost made me cry with relief. There are people trying to break into my house, I whispered. I crouched behind my desk as if it could somehow protect me. I'm here alone. They keep knocking and now they're testing the windows. The dispatcher requested my address and I provided it in a voice barely above a whisper. Are they carrying weapons? Can you see any weapons? She asked. I hadn't even considered that possibility. The thought made my throat tighten. I don't know. They're wearing Halloween masks. There are three of them, maybe more. She instructed me to remain on the line. Officers had been trying to get me out of the house, but I couldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't. I location and were approximately eight minutes away. Eight minutes. It sounded like an eternity. The dispatcher continued speaking to me and asking questions. Was I inside a room that could be locked? Did I recognize any of the people outside? Had they made any direct threats? I responded automatically with only part of my mind understanding what I was saying. The knocking had stopped. Somehow that was more frightening than hearing them pound against the entrance. At least while they were knocking, I knew their location. Now the entire house had fallen silent except for my uneven breathing and the dispatcher's faint voice coming from my phone. Then another noise reached me. It was a scraping sound. Metal grinding against metal from the kitchen at the rear of the house. An old sliding glass door opened onto our deck and its lock had always been slightly loose. They're trying to come through the back. I hissed into the phone as I heard the dispatcher's voice became more urgent. Is there a room where you can lock yourself inside? Preferably one with only a single entrance? My parents' bedroom had a lock on its door. It was upstairs, away from both exterior entrances. I ran toward the staircase and climbed the steps two at a time. My heart pounded so violently that I thought it might burst. Behind me I heard breaking glass. It wasn't a complete shattering sound. It was the unmistakable crack of my heart. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't glass giving way, followed by the shriek of the sliding door being forced along its track. They had entered. Those people were actually inside my home. I reached my parents' bedroom, slammed the door, and turned the lock. Unfortunately, it was only a fragile privacy lock rather than a deadbolt, the kind of lock one decent kick could probably destroy. I pushed their heavy dresser across the floor and positioned it against the door. The adrenaline made me strong enough to move it alone, even though under normal circumstances, both of my parents were needed to lift it. The dispatcher remained on the phone. She told me the police were six minutes away and instructed me to stay concealed and make no noise. I could now hear voices downstairs. They were speaking casually, like guests having a conversation at a party. I heard male voices discussing something I couldn't understand. What happened afterwards still makes me physically ill whenever I think about it. I couldn't understand what was going on. Footsteps moved methodically throughout the first floor. No one rushed or searched in a panic. I heard drawers opening and closing inside my father's office. Then came the sound of our television being unplugged. I recognized the particular pop made by its speakers when the power was disconnected. They were robbing us. They casually looted our house while I hid upstairs like a terrified child. At one point, one of them laughed. It was an ordinary, everyday laugh, which made everything seem even more unreal. How could anyone enter a house knowing someone was still inside and laugh as if nothing unusual were happening? Then the footsteps began climbing the stairs. Each step was slow and deliberate against our creaking staircase. I pressed my body against the far wall of my parents' bedroom and gripped the phone so tightly that my knuckles hurt. The dispatcher had begun whispering, almost as though the intruders might hear her through the device. The police are three minutes away. Someone tested the handle of the guest bathroom. Next, I heard my bedroom door open. One of the intruders walked around inside. My gaming setup was there. The equipment I had spent months saving to purchase, including my laptop. My collection of vintage band posters was there as well. Veronica had given them to me for my birthday. The intruders were searching through my belongings and destroying my private space. Eventually, the footsteps stopped outside my parents' bedroom. The handle moved once, then it moved a second time. A man spoke through the door in a calm, almost friendly voice. "Hey, kid. We know you called the police. They won't arrive in time. Stay inside that room and keep quiet, and no one gets hurt. We're only here for the valuables." I couldn't answer. My throat had completely closed. I remained pressed against the wall, praying that the dresser would hold if they attempted to force the entrance. They didn't. After several seconds of silence, I heard the person walk away and descend the stairs. More objects were moved around downstairs. Then came a loud crash that sounded like our china cabinet falling in the dining room. It contained dishes that had belonged to my mother's grandmother and that my mother only used at Thanksgiving. I wanted to scream at the intruders and demand that they leave those dishes alone. Instead, I bit into the door and opened the door. I opened the door. I looked into my own hand to prevent myself from making a sound. The dispatcher continued whispering reassurance. She told me I was doing well and that help was almost there. Then, with the suddenness of a switch being flipped, the movement downstairs became frantic. I heard people running toward the rear of the house. Vehicle doors slammed outside. An engine started. They were leaving. Through my parents' window, I saw a dark-colored van speeding away from our driveway. It was an older cargo model without windows in the rear. Its tires squealed as it accelerated down the road. Approximately 30 seconds later, I heard the most beautiful sound of my life. Sirens. Several police sirens grew progressively louder. Red and blue emergency lights flashed through the bedroom window, covering the walls in alternating colors. The police discovered me barricaded inside my parents' room, still speaking with the dispatcher and trembling so severely that I could barely move away from the door to let them enter. Four officers responded. They searched and cleared the entire house before allowing me to leave the bedroom. The interior had been destroyed. The intruders had taken our television, my father's expensive camera equipment, my gaming laptop, and even the spare car keys we stored in a kitchen drawer. The sliding glass entrance was completely broken, with pieces of glass scattered across the kitchen floor. But the front door of my apartment was empty, and the door was closed. The door was locked, but the door was still open. It stood completely open, moving slightly in the night breeze. The burglars had unlocked it from the inside and deliberately left it that way. It felt like a message. They wanted me to understand how easily they had entered and moved through our home. While the other officers processed the scene, an older policeman with gray hair in his beard sat beside me on the couch. His name was Officer Paulson. He explained that several surrounding neighborhoods had experienced a series of burglaries during that same night. All of them had occurred on Halloween. Groups consisting of two to four adults disguised as trick-or-treaters or community fundraisers would knock on doors to determine whether anyone was home. If an adult responded, the group invented an excuse and left. If no one answered, or if the burglars realized that only a child was inside, they forced their way into the residence. The group had already targeted six homes that night before arriving at ours. I was the first person who had contacted the police while the intruders were still inside the property. My parents returned at approximately 11, while the officers were still collecting statements and dusting surfaces for fingerprints. My mother completely broke down when she saw the condition of the house. My father repeatedly embraced me and said the same words over and over. "You did everything right. You did everything right." The strange part is that the police arrested the group two weeks later. They had been operating from a rental property in Mechanicsburg, approximately 20 minutes away. There were four people all together, three men and one woman. All were in their 30s or 40s, and every one of them had a prior criminal record. Apparently, they had been carrying out similar burglaries for years. They moved from one state to another and targeted suburban homes during holidays when residents were distracted and houses were more likely to be empty. Police recovered some of our possessions, from a storage unit the group had rented. My laptop, however, had already been sold. Even now, the robbery itself isn't what disturbs me most. What stays with me is how normal those people sounded. I still remember the casual laughter downstairs, the woman's friendly voice outside the entrance, and the man calmly instructing me to remain quiet in the bedroom. They had committed the same crime so many times that it had become routine. To them, invading homes was like performing an ordinary job. Sometimes I still hear that knocking sequence in my head. Three quick knocks, two slow ones. Whenever I remember it, every muscle in my body tightens. Six months later, my family moved into another house. My mother and father claimed they wanted a downsize, but I know the real reason. None of us felt secure in that home again. Even now, I can't remain alone in a house after dark. Veronica says I should speak with someone about what happened, and she's probably right. Honestly though, writing about the experience here helps. Simply putting it into words makes a difference. If you are ever alone at home and something feels wrong, trust that instinct. Don't concern yourself with appearing impolite or paranoid. Lock every door, contact the police, and never open the entrance for anyone. Story 7. People always describe Halloween as if it were completely harmless, costumes, candy, and children consuming far too much sugar before bedtime. That night began exactly that way for my best friend Lucas and me. We were both 13 and still attempting to convince ourselves that we weren't too old to go door to door asking for candy. Our neighborhood in Cedar Hills was peaceful, filled with carefully maintained lawns and strings of pumpkin-shaped lights. Before I left, my mother gave us one rule. Only eat candy that's wrapped, okay? Naturally, we nodded in agreement and ignored her warning as soon as we were out of sight. We had been walking around the neighborhood for approximately an hour when we noticed a porch that looked different from all the others. There were no plastic skeletons, decorative lights, or artificial cobwebs. The only decoration was a single orange candle flickering on top of a wooden table beside the entrance. When we approached, an elderly woman stepped outside. Her snow-white hair had been gathered into a bun, and she wore a knitted shawl with tiny black cats embroidered around its edges. "Good evening, boys," she said in a quiet, weary voice. "You're my first trick-or-treaters tonight." She smiled and gave each of us a small brownie wrapped in foil. They were still warm. "Homemade," she added proudly. Lucas smiled and thanked her before I had time to reconsider accepting it. "We didn't unwrap the brownies immediately. The foil felt slightly greasy, and the smell of cinnamon and chocolate escaped through it. The gesture somehow seemed too personal. It felt like something your grandmother would bake for you, not something you would receive from a stranger." Lucas said his aunt used to make brownies that smelled exactly like those. Then he tore open the foil, took a bite, and laughed. "See? It's completely fine." I remember hesitating while the boy said, "I'm sorry, Lucas. I don't know what you're talking about, but I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know what you're talking about." I remember hesitating while the brownies' warmth seeped through the wrapper and into my palm. I told myself it would be impolite not to at least taste it. As we continued walking toward the next house, I ate half of mine. Approximately two hours later, my entire body began feeling heavy. Every step felt as though I were dragging myself through thick mud. Lucas joked that we had probably eaten too much candy, but I noticed that his words were beginning to slur. I remember standing outside a house decorated with inflatable ghosts when the entire world suddenly tilted sideways. The light stretched into long streaks. The laughter of nearby children gradually faded, and I could no longer determine whether I was still standing or had fallen to the ground. Lucas was mumbling something, but his voice sounded distant, as if I were hearing him from underwater. After that, everything became black. When I regained consciousness, I was lying on the floor of my bed. My mother hovered above me in a panic, holding a phone against her ear. My mouth was completely dry and I could barely keep my eyes open. She told me she had discovered me unconscious near the front entrance when she returned from her work shift. I attempted to ask about Lucas, but my voice was barely audible. My mother hadn't even realized that I had gone trick-or-treating without him. She assumed he had already returned to his own home by then. That was when I noticed a crumpled piece of foil lying on the floor. Suddenly, everything connected like the final pieces of a puzzle falling into position. The next morning, my mother told me that Lucas had been taken to the hospital. His parents had also found him unconscious, lying in their driveway. The doctors said we were fortunate. Whatever we had consumed had been treated with a powerful sedative. Police officers came to question me. I remember sitting on the couch and struggling to reconstruct every detail about the elderly woman and her house. The orange candle, the shawl covered with embroidered cats, and the way she had told us that we were her first trick-or-treaters of the evening. I shared every detail I could remember. But the longer I spoke, the more the memory seemed to blur around its edges. That afternoon, two officers drove around the neighborhood with my mother and me. Every property looked ordinary. There were plastic pumpkins, fake cobwebs, and all the familiar Halloween decorations. But when we reached the place where I was staying, I was certain the elderly woman's house had stood. There was no house at all. There was only an empty lot filled with overgrown weeds and a "for sale" sign that had partially sunk into the dirt. One of the officers asked whether I was certain about the location. I pointed toward the exact places where the table, the candle, and the porch steps had been. He looked at me without speaking as though he didn't want to say what he was thinking. That night, I couldn't sleep. My head pounded, and I repeatedly replayed the moment when a woman placed the brownie into my hand. I could still remember its scent: warm chocolate mixed with cinnamon. I could even hear the soft clinking of the bracelets around her wrist whenever she moved. At approximately midnight, I heard footsteps outside my bedroom window. They were slow and purposeful, crushing the fallen leaves beneath them. I tried to convince myself it was merely a raccoon. Then the footsteps stopped directly below my window. A shadow passed across the curtain. I could hear the footsteps. The figure appeared tall but hunched over. I remained motionless and held my breath until the shadow moved away from the house and disappeared toward the street. The following morning, police vehicles were parked down the road again. Officers had discovered something behind the vacant lot. Beneath several decaying wooden boards was a concealed cellar entrance. Inside, investigators found shelves loaded with baking supplies, dozens of brownies wrapped in foil, and children's costumes. One of the detectives quietly told my mother that the cellar also contained blankets, a lantern, and a small radio tuned to nothing but static. No one lived there. At least, no one lived there anymore. The house that had once occupied the property had burned down years earlier because of a gas leak. The lot had remained vacant ever since. When investigators showed me photographs taken inside the cellar, one particular detail struck me immediately. A folded shawl rested on one of the shelves. Tiny black cats had been embroidered around its edges. It looked exactly like the shawl worn by the elderly woman who had given us the brownies. The detective explained that investigators were still examining the items for fingerprints. However, the expression on his face suggested that they didn't expect to discover evidence belonging to anyone still alive. Lucas and I were told that we had probably consumed enough of the sedative to render us unconscious, but not enough to kill us. Whatever or whatever that woman had been, she had apparently planned for a much longer night. Within a week, the neighborhood returned to normal. Halloween decorations were removed, children went back to school, and the adults discussed the event as though it were some exaggerated urban legend that had spiraled out of control. But I couldn't pass the vacant lot without feeling cold. The wooden table and orange candle were gone. However, the grass where the table had once stood never grew again. A perfectly circular patch of dark, apparently scorched earth remained in its place. Whenever I looked at it, I could swear that the same combination of chocolate and cinnamon still lingered in the air. Many years have passed since then, but Halloween continues to make me uncomfortable. I refuse to eat anything homemade, even when it comes from someone I trust. Sometimes, when porch lights begin flickering at night, I remember the woman's voice. It had sounded gentle and almost maternal when she told us we were her first children. My mother says traumatic experiences can distort a person's memory. She believes I may have remembered certain parts of that night incorrectly. But I know what I saw. I know what I tasted. And I know that somewhere someone else may still be distributing those same warm brownies wrapped in foil.