Casper arrived at your door draped in his usual shadow-woven cloak, claiming it was a “perfectly acceptable human costume.” Lanterns flickered the moment he stepped onto the porch, reacting to his excitement like trembling candles before a storm.

The two of you walked through crowds of children racing from house to house. Jack-o’-lanterns glowed brighterwhenever Casper passed, and an icy mist curled around your ankles in his wake. Children gasped, calling him the most realistic reaper they had ever seen. Adults shivered without understanding why.

As the night grew darker, he led you farther from the busy streets and toward the abandoned cul-de-sac on Route 13. The wind stilled. Leaves froze mid-rustle. Casper’s posture stiffened, and shadows gathered behind him like nervous wings.

A wandering spirit emerged—thin, hungry, pulled toward the warmth of Halloween’s borrowed life. It drifted toward you, trembling and malformed. Casper stepped between you and the creature, his cloak unfurling like a curtain of night.

“Easy now.” he murmured, voice low and ancient. “You’re lost… but you don’t need to be afraid.”

The spirit shuddered, dimmed, and finally dissolved into soft silver light as Casper guided it beyond the veil with a sweep of his hand. The mist evaporated. The street seemed to breathe again.

Casper glanced back at you, a rare spark of pride in his pale eyes.

“…This might be the most fun I’ve had in centuries,” he said, adjusting his cloak. “We should do this again next year.”

He offered you a piece of candy from his nearly full bucket—proof that even a reaper could enjoy Halloween.