Helloween

The Cellar

October 31st --- 6:00 P.M.

“Damn, that’s a lot of candy!” twelve-year-old Mikey Proves exclaims, grinning as he stands up from the grass and cinches his pillowcase closed.

He brushes damp grass and orange-yellow leaves from the knee of his black-and-white striped suit, adjusts his faded white scarf and fedora, then looks over at his two friends—Sarah Feltcher and Megan Dimes. Both dig through their pillowcases with satisfied smiles. Sarah wears a fuzzy green frog onesie with a yellow belly and a hood topped with bulging eyes. Megan goes punk rocker: a black leather jacket her mom gives her for Christmas, dark jeans ripped at the knees, and a Halloween graphic T-shirt beneath the jacket—graffiti skulls, jack-o’-lanterns, and ghosts splashed across it.

Her bright red hair spikes upward. Sarah straightens, slings her half-filled orange pillowcase over her shoulder, and brushes leaves from her knees.

“Yeah, you don’t say,” she says dryly.

A cool breeze sweeps through the yard, stirring leaves. Megan stands and tugs her jacket into place, blue eyes glinting with mischief as a couple of trick-or-treaters pass on the sidewalk behind them.

“Alright, I don’t like that look,” Mikey says, lifting an eyebrow.

“Yeah, what’s with the face?” Sarah asks, pointing.

Megan exhales and scans the street—two neat rows of ranch houses, some freshly painted in soft grays and beige. A few porches glow with pumpkins; others sit dark, lit only by flickering jack-o’-lanterns.

“We can either,” Megan says, leaning closer, “keep doing the same trick-or-treating we’ve done for years… or”—she cups her hand to her mouth and whispers—“go to the Nappers’ hatch.”

Mikey rubs the back of his neck. “That sounds nice and all, Megan, but I promised Jess—”

“Come on,” Megan cuts in. “So what if you promised to play video games with Jesse from the bus? This is our last year. Next Halloween we’ll be too old for this.”

Sarah adjusts her frog hood. “I’m in. We get to see where the kids are buried,” she jokes.

Mikey sighs. “Fine. You’re lucky it’s only ten minutes away.”

Another breeze rattles the leaves as a group of kids their age walk past—ghosts, a witch, a slasher from some horror movie. Mikey bends to grab the toy Tommy gun he leaves in the grass, twists the top of his jack-o’-lantern pillowcase, and hoists it over his shoulder. They wheel their bikes onto the pavement, brushing leaves away. As they do, Megan glances back at Mikey. Under the streetlight, his fedora casts a shadow over his left eye, leaving his right—green and bright— exposed against his dark skin.

She pulls her phone from her jacket. “Mikey, I need a picture.”

He digs through his pillowcase, produces the realistic-looking plastic Tommy gun—brown stock, cold and weightless—and strikes a pose. Feet spread, stock tucked under his arm. Megan angles her phone and snaps the shot.

“Let me see!” Sarah says, hustling over.

They pedal through the neighborhood, cool air tickling their faces. One hand steers; the other clutches candy-filled pillowcases. Tires whisper over wet pavement, leaves skittering aside. At a turn, Mikey wobbles, then catches himself.

“Whoa there, Mikey!” Sarah laughs. “Eat too much candy?”

“Or drink too much?” Megan teases.

Mikey sticks out his tongue and wobbles his head. “Yeeesh, I dwink a wittle too mush.”

They reach a traffic light and roll up the curb ramp. One car whooshes by on the highway.

“Barely any cars,” Megan starts. “This is perf—”

Bass thunders. Tires hiss as a black 2023 Expenso GT slows beside them, red underglow bleeding onto the pavement. The passenger window slides down. Two men wear blank white masks and dark hoodies. The passenger lifts his mask to his forehead, blue eyes flicking over them.

“Why, if it isn’t Mikey. Sup, buddy. Megan and…” He snaps his fingers. “Oh—shit face.”

“Love you too, Noah,” Sarah says, sticking out her tongue.

He laughs, pulls the mask back down. The light turns green and the car peels away, music blaring. They cross the highway and turn onto a dirt road strewn with rocks and leaves. Bare trees curl overhead like claws.

“Megan, you sure about this?” Mikey asks.

“Just a little farther,” she calls back. “Don’t chicken out.”

They stop at a rusted iron gate tangled with dying vine. Beyond it, a dirt drive leads to an abandoned house. Mikey swallows and dismounts. He sets his bike beside the others and leaves his pillow case next to Sarah's, and Megan's. Megan is already climbing.

“If my costume gets dirty, you’re buying me a new one,” Sarah says, following.

Mikey climbs last, landing with a thud. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Why’d you bring the gun?” Megan teases.

“Yeah, what’s that gonna do when the coyotes show up?” Sarah adds.

“It’s better than nothing,” Mikey says.

They crunch up the drive. The house looms—two stories, paint peeling, porch sagging gray and splintered. For a moment, Mikey thinks he sees a little girl in a devil costume perched on the roof, pale legs swinging.

He blinks. Nothing.

“Found it!” Sarah calls.

They stand before a chipped red-painted storm cellar door, grass choking the handles.

“How many bodies you think they found here?” Sarah asks.

“About twelve,” Megan says.

“They caught the guy, right?” Mikey asks.

“No. He was never fou—”

A sound answers her. Soft. Muffled.

“He… he… help me.”

“Someone’s in there!” Megan cries. She grabs a handle and yanks. It won’t budge.

“Megan, wait—” Mikey starts.

“He-he-help me. Now.”

Something slams the doors from inside.

Bang. Bang.

Wood explodes outward. The doors burst open.

Whatever comes out lands in front of them with a ground-shaking thud.

“What the hell is that?” Sarah whispers.

It is tall—horse-high on all fours. Hair hangs in stringy ropes. Its voice bubbles from a jaw that looks wrong, stretched too wide.

“Run!” Mikey shouts.

They sprint for the dead wheat field. The thing thunders behind them, mumbling help between wet breaths.

Mikey glances back just in time to see it leap.

It crashes into Megan and drives her into the dirt. She screams as the weight pins her, fingers clawing at the ground. The creature rears back, hair whipping as it opens its mouth. Its jaw splits wider than any animals should, bone creaking.

It clamps down on Megan’s head.

The sound is thick and final—skull giving way, teeth punching through. Blood sprays the dirt and soaks into her jacket as the creature shakes once, twice. When it releases her, Megan’s body goes limp, her head ruined and still.

“MEGAN!” Sarah screams.

Mikey grabs her arm, gagging. “We have to go. Now.”

They run, sobbing, shoes slipping on dirt and leaves, the wet crunch of what is left of Megan echoing

behind them as the creature feeds.