Phoebe has always hated Halloween.
Even back when we were dating—she never came to any Halloween parties with me. I have a cold. I have a headache. I ate something bad. After we got married and moved into the suburbs, she wouldn’t even join me handing out candy to trick-or-treaters. I’m going to sleep, she’d say, even though it was only 6 o’clock. She'd even ask me to leave the house because I was "making too much noise."
I let it slide… until Anthony was born.
”Come on. We have to go trick-or-treating.” Anthony was dressed up as the cutest little pumpkin—only 8 months old. He smiled as I bounced him in my arms, looking out the door into the night.
“I’m really not feeling well,” Phoebe replied, lingering on the stairs.
“You seemed fine ten minutes ago.”
“Well, I don’t feel well now.”
“I don’t believe you.” It was mean, but I was annoyed. She’d given me the same excuses for eight Halloweens in a row. It wasn’t coincidence.
She didn’t deny it—just looked past me, into the night.
“Why do you hate Halloween? Is it because your parents were so strict? I know you weren’t allowed to trick-or-treat, growing up…”
“Can’t you just take Anthony alone?”
“I want to go as a family.”
She glanced again at the darkness gathering outside. Then she pressed her lips into a thin line. “I’m sorry. But I don't feel good.”
A heavy silence settled between us.
She came down the stairs. Wrapped her arms around both of us, and patted Anthony softly on the head. “I love you both. Have fun tonight.”
From the way her voice slightly wavered, I could’ve sworn she was on the verge of tears. But she turned away, and in a flash of dark hair, she was already upstairs.
The same dance happened over and over again, every year. Anthony was soon wearing Mutant Ninja Turtles and Star Wars costumes instead of pumpkins, but Phoebe still refused to go trick-or-treating with us. Every year we had the same discussion. I asked her to come. She insisted that she was feeling ill. She went upstairs to our bedroom and locked the door. Anthony and I headed out onto the sidewalk, candy bucket swinging.
Except, on the evening of Halloween 2021, we came home early.
Anthony had tripped and skinned his knee. So less than an hour after we left we were hobbling home. As we rounded the bend onto Maple Ave., I saw that the light in our room was on.
Phoebe hadn’t “gone to sleep” like she said she was.
I helped Anthony with the wound, set him up in front of the TV, and then charged upstairs. I was mad. She must’ve heard us come home, must’ve heard Anthony crying in the kitchen—and she didn’t even come down to check on us? Whether her aversion to Halloween was psychological, or some sort of moral religious thing, it had to stop.
But as I got to the top of the stairs, I froze.
Phoebe’s voice was coming from our room.
She was talking to someone.
I tiptoed to the door and pressed my ear against it. I couldn’t make out what she was saying—but her voice was low, fast, soft. Like she was trying not to be heard.
My body went cold. I turned the doorknob—but it was locked.
“Phoebe! Let me in!”
The light coming from under the door went out.
“I know you’re in there,” I shouted.
Seconds ticked by. A clatter sounded from behind the door. Then, finally, it opened.
Phoebe darted out, quickly closing the door behind her. She looked significantly worse than just an hour ago, her skin was pale and deep bags under her eyes. “You shouldn’t be home this early,” she whispered.
“Who’s in there with you?”
“No one.” She glanced back at the closed door. “You and Anthony need to get out of here. Now.”
“What’s going on?”
“Mike—”
She was cut off by a soft thump.
Someone was knocking on our bedroom door.
Something about the knocks made my whole body go cold. They were slow, methodical—like the person on the other side had all the time in the world.
“Who’s in there?” I whispered.
She glanced back at the door again, her eyes wide. “Do you remember the time I got a really bad asthma attack? I told you about it when we first started dating. How I was in the hospital for weeks, how I almost died.”
Thump… thump…
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I should’ve died. But I didn’t. And now—every Halloween—I have to give it some of my life, in payment.”
Without another word, she pushed the door open.
In the center of the darkened room stood a towering form. Black robes hung off its thin frame, trailing on the ground. A large jack-o’-lantern sat on its shoulders, its eyes flickering amber, the mouth cut into a wide grin. The only parts of its body visible were its hands—long, gray, bone-thin fingers that ended in sharp nails.
It stood in the center of the room, absolutely still.
Phoebe turned away from me. She walked towards the thing, her legs shaking underneath her. The jack-o’-lantern raised a bony finger and touched her forehead.
And then it crumpled into a mass of black fabric at her feet.
Phoebe turned around. Her mouth stretched into a wide grin as her eyes locked on mine. Then she stepped toward me, emitting a horrible, guttural laugh.
I ran out of the bedroom.
“Anthony!” I shouted. Finding him still in front of the TV, I grabbed him and ran outside. We leapt into the car and peeled out of the driveway. In the rearview mirror, I could see her—its—silhouette in the upstairs window.
Watching us.
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