Lorenzo was stood over his wife, Rachel, who was sat in a dingy red armchair infront of a small box TV, which made gargled, disturbed audio interrupted by a slither of coherent dialogue. Rachel was always sat there, by herself, gazing into it, endlessly.

Lorenzo wasn't wearing a Halloween costume yet. Rachel was in a witch costume. Some children should stumble in by now, he was ready for it. He knew Rachel was. They always managed to get a few naughty children to stay the night, so they, well, Lorenzo, could slaughter them.

Rachel always took a photo of them, to remember the children that they took in. She really thought of them as her own, while her husband was more immersed in the butchering of the young children.

He'd grown immune to the stench of death, the unmoving stench of decomposition, the inescapable scent of dead children, oozing from the backdoor. It's not like he cared too much for them.

But he was gentle with Rachel.

Somewhat.

Lorenzo rubbed Rachel's shoulders, soothingly. She was flipping through her photo book, which had many, many photos from different years, each one dated as halloween, with photos of children in Halloween costumes stood inside the home.

She wrote the kids names underneath, as if she felt a deep, motherly connection to the children she posted a hand in killing. Lorenzo felt the floorboards creak underneath him, he glanced outside of the foggy, smashed window. He'd set up some pumpkins outside, so kids knocked on the door, but nobody had knocked yet.

Nobody. Not one stray child, not a single child who wanted to knock on one more house before they went back home. He knew Rachel would go mad soon, and he had one day a year to take out all of the murderous pure rage he bottled up inside, and this was it.

Rachel had one day to pretend to be a mother, and it was tonight.

Lorenzo rubbed Rachel's shoulders again, with a slight increase in the force. He let out a low hum. "You only flick through the photo book when you're sad.." he cooed. "Children will knock soon, sweetheart."