Halloween.

My favourite holiday. The one night a year when it’s socially acceptable to scream at strangers and douse oneself in fake blood.

I fucking love Halloween.

The park buzzed with action. There were people everywhere, some actors, some cosplayers and some here for just a good scare. And boy was I just so pleased to abide.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I know what I look like. I could make people afraid, or make some sick freaks get butterflies. I’m not an ugly dude, but I’ve made it my personal mission to make all people so scared that they don’t even have a second to notice the fact that I’m semi-attractive.

Some girls clutched at my shirt, and I screamed and chased them until they were shaking and gaunt-cheeked. A dude I passed tried to spook me, but I was too fast and twitched until he turned the other way.

I was in my element. The world was my oyster. I felt free.

I’m glad others’ felt my sentiment, with people all around the park screaming hysterically then laughing once the actor walked away. It’s simple, really, Halloween isn’t the same without those who love a good scare. It’s boring. Tasteless, even.

And then I saw her.

A ghost, literally, to the people around her.

She stood there, dressed in all white, with ruffles and stockings and a corset stained red, holding a fake candelabra like it protected her from being seen. Like a spirit that walked straight from a painting. Gorgeous. Stunning. Otherworldly.

The only pop of colour besides the blood on her were the eyes. They glowed in the moonlight, beautiful and strange. Her skin was painted white, hair either naturally white or a wig. I couldn’t tell from here.

Ohhh, Marsdon, you are getting paid tonight.

I knew that all people would see was an actor going up to a customer. The skeleton to the soul. I was going to be charming. I was going to get filmed. Filmed is good. Publicity is excellent. I needed the cash. Who doesn’t?

And so I do.

I stroll over to the ghoul with confidence, walking up behind her and resting my cool palm against her back. Gently, lightly, just in case she wants to pull away.

I don’t say anything—the best actors never do—just stare at her with a quiet intensity. I try twitching, and she doesn’t flinch, but she doesn’t exactly look unafraid, either.

I smirk. Brushing a stray hair from her face, I notice the camera behind me. One of our media people. Good.