The Halloween Murders

The Halloween Murders

Halloween was never quiet in our town. The night carried a mix of smoke, laughter, and shouts of children running through the streets with masks too big for their faces. Pumpkins glowed on windowsills, some carved with smiles, some with crooked teeth. The air smelled of damp leaves and the faint sweetness of toffee apples. People joked that our town was cursed on Halloween. Most laughed, others whispered it as if it were truth.

I never believed it until that year.

It started with a scream. A high sound that cut across the street like a knife. At first people thought it was part of the fun. Kids playing, someone in a mask chasing another. But when the scream carried on, long and broken, the laughter fell away. I stood near the corner shop, my bag of sweets heavy in my hand. The street seemed to bend into silence. Even the wind stopped.

We saw a girl run, her costume torn, her face white in the orange glow of the streetlight. She stumbled, and when she looked back, I saw something behind her. A figure in black, taller than anyone I knew, with a mask that seemed to shine though it was not metal. The crowd of us froze. Someone whispered that it was just a trick. But then the girl fell and the figure was on her.

The sound that came next was not part of any joke. People gasped. A few ran forward then stopped when they saw the blade rise and fall. The rest of us stepped back, as if the street itself pushed us away. I could not look away though my stomach turned. My sweets spilled on the ground, and a lollipop rolled toward the blood that was now spreading under her.

Someone shouted to call the police. Phones lit the street but the signal seemed weak, voices breaking into static. The figure stood, the mask turning slow as if it saw every one of us. Some ran into houses, slamming doors. Others clutched their children and dragged them away. I felt tears on my face though I had not noticed them falling.

And then, the strangest thing. The figure made a low, rough sound, broken like wood cracking in a fire. It echoed off the houses, and for a moment, I thought the whole town was caught in it. My chest shook though it was not with joy. Fear can twist a sound until it feels like mockery.

The figure turned and walked away. The girl lay still, her eyes open, catching the pumpkin light.

Some of us moved to her side once the figure turned the corner. She was gone, and the silence became heavier. A boy in a vampire mask cried, his fake blood running with real tears. An older man muttered a prayer, his hands shaking. Someone made a nervous sound, sharp, like glass breaking. Panic has a way of slipping out when terror is too much.

That night was not the end. More screams came from the other side of town. More shadows moved across the streets. We did not know if it was one figure or many. The police arrived late, their sirens weak against the thick dark. Bodies were found in alleys, in gardens, even in the park where the swings moved though the wind was still.

By morning the pumpkins were burnt out, their faces drooping. The streets were stained, and the sweet wrappers blew around like ghosts. The children would not go out after dark. And when Halloween came round again, half the houses stayed dark, curtains drawn.

The man was caught in the week that followed. He had killed five innocent people that night. They lost their lives. He was given life imprisonment without chance of release. He died in prison eight years later.

I still hear that sound in my sleep. I wake with my hands shaking. The sound of panic mixed with tears. That is what Halloween gave us. And it never gave it back. No I lock my doors on Halloween Night.