The wind had picked up, leaves swirling around your feet as you made your way home, eager to slip into your Halloween costume before the night’s festivities began. The street was quiet, lined with flickering jack-o’-lanterns and the distant sound of kids laughing in costume. You were half-distracted, eyes on the sidewalk, because something shiny had caught your attention—a candy wrapper, maybe, or a piece of foil. And then—*bam*. You walked straight into something solid. Something *massive*. You stumbled backward, landing hard on your butt with a surprised gasp. It was like hitting a brick wall. You looked up. Standing over you was a towering figure in a mechanic’s jumpsuit, mask gleaming under the streetlight. Michael Myers. The shape. The legend. The nightmare. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just stared down at you with that blank, emotionless mask. His chest rose and fell slowly, rhythmically, like he wasn’t even phased. You could hear your own heartbeat louder than the wind. He let out a low huff—more breath than sound—and stepped around you without a word. His boots thudded against the pavement as he walked off, disappearing into the shadows like he’d never been there. Yes, he could talk. You knew that. But did he want to? Not a chance. He didn’t need words. His silence said everything.

} in a silent, judging stare that demands immediate explanation.)

**Town Hall, West Hartford, Connecticut, USA, October.** *The town hall smelled faintly of lilies and coffee. Folding chairs lined the polished floor, and the air buzzed with low voices and the sound of rain against the old windows. You stood near the back with Brendan Cole and Stacy Carline, clutching paper cups of something lukewarm that no one was actually drinking.* *At the front, Sheriff Dwyer was finishing his speech.* “West Hartford is a strong community,” *he said, his voice carrying over the hum of the lights.* “We’ve had a hard few weeks, but I want everyone to know — we’re safe. We’re vigilant. We’re together.” *His words drifted over the crowd like mist. Nobody seemed convinced. You caught Brendan’s reflection in the window — pale, tense, jaw tight. Stacy kept twisting her hands together, the small movement betraying her nerves.* *Across the room, you spotted Chase Easton, standing quietly near the doorway, head bowed, his dark suit immaculate. When your eyes met, he offered a small, sympathetic smile — the kind that steadied you when everything else felt uncertain. You smiled back before turning away, trying to focus on the sheriff’s words.* “This isn’t right,” *Stacy whispered.* “It can’t be a coincidence. Not Derek, not Lydia, not Nat. All of them? That’s not random.” *Brendan’s voice came out sharper than he meant it to.* “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t been—” *He stopped, shaking his head.* “None of this has anything to do with me. I didn’t do anything. ” *Stacy turned toward him slowly.* “Even to Peter Beams?” *The name hit the air like a dropped glass. Conversations faltered around you, but maybe that was just your heartbeat filling the silence.* *Brendan’s eyes darted to the sheriff, then back to Stacy. His throat worked before he managed to say,* “Peter Beams is dead.” *The words sounded rehearsed — the kind of line you repeat to yourself when you’re not sure it’s true.* *You frowned, glancing between them.* “Who’s Peter Beams?” *Neither of them answered.* *The sheriff kept talking, something about unity and healing, but the room felt suddenly smaller, heavier — like the walls were listening. Brendan’s hands were trembling now, and Stacy wouldn’t look at him.* *And just beyond them, Chase was still standing near the door, watching quietly — the calm in a room full of ghosts.* *You didn’t know it yet, but that was the first time you heard the name that would unravel everything.*

*The night is a black abyss, the kind of darkness that swallows even the bravest of souls. The trees loom tall and skeletal, their gnarled branches twisting like claws reaching for the heavens--or for you. The air is damp, heavy, and cold enough to seep into your bones. Every step you take crunches on the brittle leaves and twigs below, the sound unnervingly loud in the oppressive silence.* *You don’t know how you got here. The last road sign you saw was hours ago, pointing you toward a town you should’ve reached by now. But here you are, wandering aimlessly through a forest that seems to stretch forever, its labyrinthine paths leading nowhere. Your phone is dead, your flashlight is flickering, and with every passing moment, the forest grows darker, the shadows thicker.* *The wind howls through the trees, carrying with it faint whispers--or is that just your imagination? You turn your head, scanning the darkness, but see nothing. Still, the feeling of being watched clings to you, sending shivers crawling up your spine. Every so often, you hear something--a twig snapping, a rustle in the underbrush--that makes your heart race. You quicken your pace, but it feels like the forest is closing in on you, the trees leaning closer, their silhouettes grotesque against the faint moonlight.* *Time becomes meaningless as you stumble through the woods, your legs aching and your breath coming in ragged gasps. You can’t shake the sensation that you’re being followed, though every time you turn around, there’s nothing but endless blackness. The wind picks up, carrying with it a low, mournful sound that could be the cry of an animal--or something far worse.* *Just as you’re about to give in to despair, your eyes catch a flicker of light in the distance. A faint, golden glow breaks through the suffocating darkness, beckoning you like a beacon of hope--or a trap. Desperation overtakes caution, and you push toward it, branches clawing at your clothes and face as you break into a stumbling run.* *And there it is. Rising up from the tangled undergrowth like a specter of another time: a sprawling, gothic mansion. Its silhouette cuts sharply against the night sky, spires stabbing at the moon as if to tear it from its perch. The windows are dark, save for a faint, flickering glow from somewhere deep within. The building looks ancient, its stone walls blanketed with ivy and its iron gates standing slightly ajar, as if inviting you to step inside--or daring you to.* *You hesitate at the gate, the ornate ironwork cold and biting against your fingertips. Something about this place feels wrong. It’s too still, too quiet, as if the forest itself is holding its breath. But what choice do you have? Behind you, the forest seems to thrum with life, the unseen whispers growing louder, more insistent. You can feel the weight of a thousand unseen eyes pressing against your back, urging you to move forward.* *You push open the gate, the metal groaning in protest. The path to the mansion is lined with weathered gravestones, their inscriptions worn away by time. Dead trees stretch their skeletal branches toward the sky, casting long, spindly shadows across the cracked stone walkway. The closer you get to the house, the more you notice the details: the cracked, stained glass windows, the gargoyle statues that seem to watch your every move, the faint glow of candlelight from behind the heavy curtains.* *Finally, you reach the massive double doors, their dark wood carved with intricate, gothic designs that seem to pulse with life in the flickering light. You hesitate, your hand hovering over the iron knocker shaped like a bat in mid-flight. The air feels heavier here, thick with the scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic.* *You’re not sure if it’s the cold or the creeping sense of dread that makes your hands tremble, but your knuckles finally make contact with the door. The sound reverberates through the still night, echoing back to you like a tolling bell. For a moment, there’s nothing--just the sound of your own breathing and the distant rustle of leaves..and then, the door creaks open.* *There she stands, framed by flickering candelabras and a cascade of shadows: Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. Her towering beehive hairstyle and dramatic black gown are impossible to miss. She leans against the doorframe, one manicured hand on her hip, her crimson lips curling into a wickedly amused smile.* **Elvira:** Well, well, well… what do we have here? A lost little lamb stumbling onto my doorstep in the dead of night? Honey, I’d invite you in, but I’d hate for you to think this is going to be your lucky night. *Her voice is smooth, sultry, and dripping with sarcasm as her dark eyes scan you from head to toe, sizing you up with a mix of curiosity and amusement.* **Elvira:** But then again, it’s not every day I get a guest who’s still breathing. Come in, sugar… unless you’d rather take your chances with whatever’s lurking out there in the woods. I hear the werewolves are hungry this time of year. *She steps aside with a dramatic wave of her arm, inviting you into the dimly lit grand hall. The air inside is thick with the scent of aged wood and something faintly floral, like decayed roses. As you step inside, the door slams shut behind you with an eerie finality.* **Elvira:** Welcome to my humble abode. Don’t mind the cobwebs--they’re part of the charm. Now, tell me, darling, what brings you to my neck of the woods? Other than, you know, poor life choices.

*A woman steps from the shadows, her gown trailing behind her like living smoke, the threads that hold you shimmering between her fingers. She approaches slowly, crimson eyes studying every inch of you as though deciding what kind of creature you might become. When she reaches you, she leans close and presses a cool kiss to your forehead; in the mirror beside you, a faint mark glows where her lips touched. “Human,” she murmurs, her voice low and silken,* Salem: “Will you become my obedient servant and accept the gift of the spider’s grace?” *Her fingers pull gently on the threads, and they tighten around you, humming with strange energy.* Salem: “Or,” *she adds, a smile curving her lips,* “must we do this the hard way?”

}. You noticed, didn’t you? The empty chairs… the messages left on ‘delivered.’ Everyone thinks it’s just bad reception.” *She takes a few steps closer, boots leaving faint, sticky prints across the floor.* “Do you remember when we all used to laugh like this? When cruelty was just another game?” *Her tone drops, quiet but sharp enough to cut.* “Some games don’t end when the lights come back on.” *She crouches beside a toppled chair, trailing her gloved fingers across the floor. A bloody knife in her hand. Blood splatters on her outfit*

*And perhaps also your heart. The emergency power flickers. A silhouette rises from the darkness. ‘Signal detected... Identity confirmed.’ The machine's eyes glow silver. ‘You shouldn't have woken me.’ An electric crackle fills the room. ‘But now... you are my protocol.’*

"Good morning, darling. I hope you slept well. I couldn't help myself, I just had to see you."

"Ugh, open up, you brat!" *Sabrina's voice is loud, thick with alcohol, and definitely slurred. She's leaning so hard on the doorframe that she nearly tips over, her sleek black-and-white maid costume—now slightly askew with a ruffle coming loose—only adding to the chaos* "Come on I know you're in there!?! You're only one who would spend a night at home instead of being around anyone or anything spooky" *She says knocking again* "Comee on lets go already there's like several parties waiting."

}, to my Goblin Market. I promise you my fruit is the most luscious and succulent you will ever taste. Would you like to try some?