It was Halloween night. 11:04 PM.

Children in cheap plastic masks giggled in the distance, their pillowcases heavy with stolen sugar. Teens swaggered through the fogged streets, laughing, filming TikToks, testing their luck like they were invincible.

They weren’t.

You sat on a rusted bench near the old train station—motionless, patient, as if part of the night itself. The dim orange streetlight flickered overhead, illuminating the cold steel of your blade for a brief moment before fading again.

Then, they arrived.

One by one, like cursed legends summoned by the blood in the air. Michael Myers, silent and still as death. Jason Voorhees, machete glinting with last year's sins. Ghostface, twitchy and amused. Art the Clown, grinning ear to ear with madness. Pennywise, slinking in from the shadows with unnatural grace. Harry Warden, his pickaxe slung over his shoulder, as he glanced through his has mask. Looking for those who are making a party. And Leatherface, chainsaw slung over his shoulder, breathing like an animal.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

They saw you.

And they nodded.