The Goblin with the Super Bee

Ghouls and jack-o'-lanterns lingered in the yards, their glowing faces fading in the biting winds of November 3rd. It was 1971, and while the streets still held echoes of Halloween mischief, spindly limbs of skeletal trees swaying in the breeze, dried leaves scattered like whispers, I was preparing for my final masterpiece.

My life has always been a series of chameleonic shifts. A salesman by day, a bank robber by night, I’ve always blended into the world, unnoticed. No one remembers a man like me. And perhaps that was why I became what I did, a ghost in the room, the perfect thief.

By nature, I preferred the shadows, and Halloween was my time to thrive. The air had begun to crisp, and the last slivers of daylight had fled, leaving the world ripe for disappearing into. It was the hour when everyone’s guard was down, when the darkness could embrace me like an old friend.

The rules, simple but crucial: I never struck before Halloween. The end of daylight savings, when night drapes its velvet cloak a little earlier each evening. A time when I could slip into the world unnoticed, like a whisper in a graveyard. I operated in cold weather, when oversized coats and gloves were a natural fit for a man like me. And the last five minutes of a bank’s open hours? The perfect moment for a quick exit.

A few more details for the purist: I preferred remote locations—banks on the edge of the woods, far enough from town to buy me time before the sirens wailed. The woods themselves would be my sanctuary, safely obscured from prying eyes, with only the trees as my silent witnesses. And no getaway car. The night itself was my vehicle. The land, the forest, my most trusted ally.

But tonight, tonight was different. This was to be my final act, the crowning jewel of a career that had spanned eleven states. The grand finale. The perfect heist. Wisconsin would be the canvas for my final brushstroke.

I’d prepared in my usual manner. A mask, yes, but not just any mask. A goblin mask, grotesque, with stringy hair that seemed to have been ripped straight from a nightmare. It would keep the eyes distracted. And it would keep me hidden. But Halloween masks were not only for hiding—they were for becoming. And tonight, I was not just a man, but a creature of the shadows, a part of the story itself.

The bank sat nestled between darkened trees, a relic of small-town life, its windows like empty eyes, watching. I entered through the front door, stepping into the familiar cold of the building. Two tellers, one deep in paperwork, the other in the quiet world of coffee-making, unaware of the storm coming their way.

“This is a robbery!” I growled, the voice of my mask croaking through the stillness. The woman froze, her hand still clutching a half-full cup of stale popcorn, her eyes wide with terror.

I approached the counter, careful and deliberate. "All the bills, now." My gun was steady, aimed, but never rushed. The man behind the counter stammered, fumbling with the drawer, stacking the money with trembling hands.

Then, as if in slow motion, a man walked in. Not just any man, but a fool, a hero in his own mind, trying to rush at me. My instincts kicked in before I could think. A quick sidestep, a perfect suplex. He hit the ground with a thud, groaning. I kept my gun aimed at the teller. “Finish it,” I said, my voice low. He didn’t dare make another move.

Once the money was in my bag, I turned, exiting with the same quiet grace I had come in with. The woods were my refuge, the leaves rustling beneath my boots like the whispers of a long-lost song. The night was mine, and I was its ghoul.

Back at my drop-off point, I removed my mask, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. I switched clothes quickly, buried everything, the money, the weapon, the gloves, into the well-hidden hole I’d prepared earlier. Then the goblin mask, the final token of my craft.

For the first time, though, I didn’t feel the usual thrill. I felt a strange weight in the air, a sense of something ending. This was my last job, my final masterpiece. I had always promised myself twelve, and twelve was the limit. I was a master, but no one escapes the law forever.

As I walked back toward my car, the familiar thrum of my Super Bee’s engine hummed in my chest, a bittersweet symphony. The officer who stopped me, a slow-moving figure in the night, didn’t recognize the ghost he was speaking to. A quick exchange, a harmless pat-down, and I was back on the road. The radio played David Bowie’s “Running Gun Blues,” as if the night itself knew I was done.

Two weeks later, I returned to the woods, where the earth still held the scent of October. I dug up the bag slowly, the same way one might recover a long-lost secret. I counted the money, twenty thousand dollars. Yet, I felt no triumph, no victory. It was enough to vanish, to start anew, to live a life unburdened by the past.

But as the bills slipped through my fingers, I realized something I hadn’t expected. The wealth, the escape, it wasn’t what haunted me. My last job had left me with more than just money. It had left a silence in me, a hollow that no amount of cash could fill.

I looked at the goblin mask, its smile too wide, too knowing. And I realized, with a chill, that with the completion of that final job, I had left behind a part of myself. Not a thing I could touch, but something that could never be reclaimed. A kind of quiet, aching loss that no amount of money would ever ease.