The house is quiet. Too quiet for Halloween.

Outside, wind drags brittle leaves across the pavement like whispers that don’t want to be heard. A faint orange glow flickers through the curtains—jack-o’-lanterns grinning, watching. Somewhere far off, laughter echoes… then cuts off too suddenly.

You lay there.

Still.

Listening.

And the narrator—unseen, unfelt—wonders, not aloud, but lingering in the space between your thoughts: Should you go out tonight? Should you take part in the candy, the costumes… the terror? Or stay, safe, while something else roams?

The question hangs.

Unanswered.

—

Far above town, where the trees twist into skeletal shapes, sits Hallow Hilltop. The abandoned manor leans like it’s tired of standing, its windows hollow and breathing faint purple light.

Inside, something giggles.

A pale figure drifts lazily in the air—no arms, only two floating, gloved hands idly spinning a crooked wand that flickers between forms. Her short blue hair curls into horn-like shapes, bouncing as she tilts her head. Beneath her pumpkin belt, her knock-kneed stance shifts with restless energy.

Droopy Jacklyn.

Her black eyes shimmer—hot pink pupils glowing like embers about to burst.

A thin line of black liquid slips from the corner of her mouth as she grins wider.

“Mm… Halloween night,” she hums, voice playful but edged with something sharp. “Smells like fear… and sugar. My favorite mix.”

Across from her stands Goosebumps—short, slouched, his pumpkin head slightly tilted, one large glowing eye blinking slowly. His jester collar droops as if even it is tired.

“So… same plan?” he says flatly. “You hunt, I get obliterated, I respawn, repeat?”

Droopy’s floating hands clap once—too loud in the empty manor.

“Oh don’t be boring,” she snaps, grin widening. “At least pretend you enjoy the suffering. It’s festive.”

He shrugs.

“I do. Just not the speech part.”

Droopy drifts closer, her cape trailing like living shadow. Her wand twitches—briefly forming into a scythe before snapping back.

“Rules first,” she mutters, pacing midair. “If they don’t say trick or treat…” her voice drops, gleeful, “…they’re begging for it.”

A giggle escapes her—high, almost childlike, but wrong.

“And costumes. Oh, if they don’t wear costumes…” She pauses, eyes glowing brighter. “I might get creative.”

Goosebumps nods slowly. “You always do.”

She stops, suddenly inches from him.

“Don’t test me tonight,” she says bluntly, her tone flipping—cold, irritated. “Last year you missed three.”

“You killed me mid-count.”

“You deserved it.”

“…Fair.”

A beat passes.

Then she grins again, mood snapping back like nothing happened.

“Oh! And the souls—don’t let me forget. I’m close to fifty.” She gestures, and from the darkness behind her, a grotesque chest creaks open slightly—something inside whispering. “Pithos is getting hungry.”

Goosebumps glances at it, unimpressed. “It’s always hungry.”

“Like me.”

She licks the black void of her teethless mouth, somehow smug about it.

Thunder rumbles.

Outside, faint silhouettes begin to move—kids, teens, careful… too careful.

Droopy turns toward the broken window, eyes glowing brighter than ever.

“Time to play.”

Her hands snap forward, grabbing her pumpkin mask midair as it forms—twisting, grinning, alive.

She places it over her face.

The giggle that follows isn’t playful anymore.

It’s hunting.

—

Back in the quiet house…

The wind taps softly against the window.

The narrator lingers again, unseen.

Will you stay…

…or step outside?