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| The house that skips Halloween |
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Every town has one: that dark, silent house that never gives out candy on Halloween. The one parents warn kids to skip. But this year, a new family forgets the rule—and when they light their jack-o'-lantern, the dead come knocking.
The Rule
Halloween night arrived wrapped in fog that clung to Maple Hollow Drive like cobwebs. The streetlamps glowed orange through the mist, casting halos around jack-o'-lanterns that grinned from every porch. Every porch except one.
Mrs. Hanley sat in her rocking chair, a bowl of candy balanced on her lap, watching the parade of princesses and superheroes making their rounds. But her eyes kept drifting toward the house at the end of the street—number 1313 Maple Hollow Drive. Dark windows. Empty porch. Not even a hint of light.
"Why doesn't anyone go to that house?" a small ghost asked, pointing toward 1313 with a pillowcase half-full of candy.
Mrs. Hanley's hand tightened on the candy bowl. "Because," she said carefully, "that house skips Halloween. Always has. Always will."
"But why?"
"Some rules don't need explaining, child. They just need following."
A gust of wind rattled the trees, extinguishing several jack-o'-lanterns on nearby porches. In the sudden darkness, Mrs. Hanley thought she saw movement in 1313's front window—a flicker, like candlelight. But when she blinked, it was gone.
She whispered to herself, "Every year, someone forgets."
The New Family
The Dawsons had moved in two weeks earlier. Laney fell in love with the Victorian architecture—the peaked roof, the wraparound porch, the stained glass window above the front door. Her husband Mark saw only renovation costs, but their ten-year-old son Sam saw possibility.
"Can we decorate for Halloween, Mom? Really decorate?"
Laney ruffled his hair. "Of course! This is our first Halloween here. We're going to make it special."
When Mrs. Hanley appeared at their door three days before Halloween, her face was grave. She held a casserole dish like a peace offering, but her eyes were stern.
"Welcome to the neighborhood," she said. "I wanted to give you a warning. This house—"
"Isn't it wonderful?" Laney beamed. "We're going to restore it. Bring it back to life."
"Keep the porch dark on Halloween," Mrs. Hanley said flatly. "Don't decorate. Don't light candles. And absolutely do not hand out candy."
Laney's smile faltered. "I'm sorry?"
"This house has been dark for fifty years. It needs to stay that way."
Mark appeared behind his wife, arms crossed. "With all due respect, ma'am, we'll celebrate however we want in our own home."
Mrs. Hanley's expression hardened. "Then you're fools. Both of you." She turned and walked away, leaving the casserole on the doorstep.
That evening, Sam and Laney carved a magnificent jack-o'-lantern—a grinning face with triangle eyes and jagged teeth. They placed it on the porch rail and plugged in the electric light inside that flickered like real flame.
When Laney flicked the switch, the pumpkin glowed orange-gold, casting dancing shadows across the weathered boards.
"Perfect," Sam whispered.
Down the street, Mrs. Hanley watched from her window. The jack-o'-lantern's light seemed to pulse, growing brighter with each flicker. She pulled her curtains closed and began to pray.
Trick or Treat
Halloween arrived crisp and perfect. Sam wore his skeleton costume, complete with glow-in-the-dark bones. Laney filled a bowl with candy—full-size bars, not the cheap stuff—and opened the door to the evening.
At first, children came in droves. Pirates and witches and zombies climbed their porch steps with shouts of "Trick or treat!" Laney handed out candy with a wide smile, delighted by the response.
But around eight o'clock, the flow stopped. Laney peered outside. Every other porch on the street was dark now, lights extinguished, decorations pulled inside.
"That's odd," she murmured. "It's not even late."
Sam had returned from his own trick-or-treating an hour earlier and now pressed his face against the window. "Mom, someone's still out there."
Laney looked where he pointed. Through the fog, she could make out small shapes moving between streetlights. They walked with an odd, stilted gait, like marionettes controlled by unpracticed hands.
"Kids being silly," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.
The doorbell rang.
When Laney opened the door, she found three children standing on her porch. They wore costumes decades out of style—a cowboy in stiff denim, a princess in yellowed lace, a ghost in a sheet with crooked eye holes. Their trick-or-treat bags were made of pillowcases, not plastic pumpkin buckets.
"Trick or treat," they said in unison, their voices flat and hollow.
Laney dropped candy into each bag, noting how cold the fabric felt. "You kids look great! Very authentic vintage costumes."
They didn't respond. They just turned and walked down the steps, movements jerky and wrong. Sam stood behind his mother, suddenly quiet.
"Mom," he whispered. "Their feet didn't make any sound."
The Warning
The next morning, Laney found a note tucked under her windshield wiper. The paper was old, edges yellowed and brittle. The handwriting was shaky but clear:
Turn off the light before dark. Or they'll come inside.
She crumpled the note and threw it away. Superstitious nonsense. But all day, she couldn't shake the image of those children on her porch—their stiff movements, their cold pillowcases, their silent footsteps.
That afternoon, she marched next door to Mrs. Hanley's house. The old woman answered on the first knock, as if she'd been waiting.
"Tell me the truth," Laney demanded. "What really happened in that house?"
Mrs. Hanley sighed and gestured for her to sit. The living room smelled of mothballs and old books. A photo album lay open on the coffee table, showing black-and-white images of children in Halloween costumes.
"Fifty-two years ago," Mrs. Hanley began, "the Holloway family lived in your house. Nice people. Good neighbors. On Halloween night, 1973, they handed out homemade caramel apples."
She turned a page in the album, revealing a newspaper clipping with the headline: "Seven Children Dead After Halloween Tragedy."
"Bad preservatives in the caramel," Mrs. Hanley continued, her voice thick. "Seven kids died that night. Terrible, painful deaths. The whole town was devastated."
Laney's hand flew to her mouth.
"The Holloways couldn't live with the guilt. Three weeks later, their house caught fire. Both parents were inside. Some say it was an accident. Others say they chose to stay."
"That's horrible," Laney whispered. "But that was fifty-two years ago. Those children are—"
"Still here," Mrs. Hanley finished. "Every Halloween, they try to come back. They're looking for the candy they never got to eat. For the childhood that was stolen from them. And if you light that jack-o'-lantern, if you keep the porch bright, they'll think you're inviting them in."
"This is insane," Laney said, standing. "You're telling me my house is haunted by dead children?"
"I'm telling you to turn off the light."
That night, despite everything, Laney unplugged the jack-o'-lantern. She told herself it was to humor the neighbors, not because she believed in ghosts. But when she checked the porch before bed, the light was glowing again—even though the power cord lay coiled on the floor.
The Knock
Rain began falling around nine o'clock. Mark was working late, leaving Laney and Sam alone in the house. They curled up on the couch with horror movies—the campy kind that made Sam laugh instead of scream.
At 9:13 p.m., three soft knocks echoed from the front door.
Sam's laughter died. "It's late for trick-or-treaters."
Laney peered through the peephole and saw a child standing on the porch. A boy in a cracked plastic mask, wearing clothes that looked like they'd come from her grandmother's attic.
She opened the door. "Trick or treat," the boy said, his voice distant and echoey.
Laney dropped a candy bar into his bag. It landed with a wet thump, and when she looked closer, she saw the bottom of the pillowcase was soaked. Dark liquid dripped onto her porch.
"Are you okay, honey?" she asked. "Are you lost?"
The boy tilted his head, the mask shifting to reveal hollow darkness beneath. Then he turned and walked down the steps, leaving wet footprints that smelled like ash and caramel.
Five minutes later, another knock.
This time, two children stood at the door. Same old costumes. Same dripping pillowcases. Same hollow voices: "Trick or treat."
Laney gave them candy with shaking hands. When they turned away, she saw the backs of their costumes were burned, fabric charred and crumbling.
"Mom," Sam whispered from behind her. "They're dripping."
The Return
By ten o'clock, the neighborhood was silent. Every light on Maple Hollow Drive had been extinguished—except the jack-o'-lantern on the Dawsons' porch, which burned brighter than ever.
Laney tried to unplug it again, but the moment she touched the cord, the bulb flared hot enough to make her snatch her hand back. The pumpkin's carved face seemed to grin wider, its triangle eyes glowing like furnaces.
"Mom." Sam's voice was barely audible. "They're back."
Through the front window, Laney saw them. Seven children standing at the edge of their yard, motionless in the rain. Their costumes were in tatters, revealing burned skin beneath. Their eyes—the ones who still had eyes—glowed faintly behind cracked masks.
The porch creaked under invisible weight. The doorknob began to turn.
From the mail slot, a voice whispered: "You kept the light on. That means we can come in."
Laney grabbed Sam and backed away from the door. The jack-o'-lantern erupted into flame—real flame this time, not electric light. Smoke poured from the carved mouth, curling through the air like reaching fingers.
When the smoke cleared, the children were inside.
They stood in a semicircle around the living room, water and ash dripping from their ruined costumes. Their pillowcases hung heavy with something that definitely wasn't candy.
"Trick or treat," they said together.
The Bargain
The smallest child—a girl in a princess costume that had once been pink—stepped forward. When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of fifty years of waiting.
"We never got our candy. We never got to finish our Halloween. We've been waiting so long."
Laney's throat was dry, but she found her voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I'm so, so sorry for what happened to you."
The children tilted their heads in unison. "Sorry doesn't fill our bags."
Sam pulled away from his mother and ran to the kitchen. He returned with his plastic pumpkin bucket, the one he'd filled with candy during his own trick-or-treating earlier that night. Without hesitation, he dumped it on the floor.
"Here," he said, voice trembling. "Take it all. Please."
The children knelt and began picking up the candy, one piece at a time. With each piece collected, their glow faded. The girl in the princess costume was last. She held a Snickers bar in her translucent hand and looked up at Sam.
"Thank you," she whispered. Then she smiled—a real smile, young and sweet and heartbreaking.
The children faded like morning mist, until only the smell of caramel and ash remained. The jack-o'-lantern's flame died, plunging the room into darkness.
Laney pulled Sam close, both of them shaking. Outside, the rain had stopped. The street was quiet again, as if nothing had happened.
But on the porch, seven small, wet footprints led down the steps and disappeared into the night.
Next Halloween
A year later, 1313 Maple Hollow Drive sat dark on Halloween night. No decorations. No lights. No jack-o'-lanterns.
Sam sat on the porch steps beside his mother, an empty candy bowl at his feet. They watched as children ran up and down the street, laughing and comparing their hauls. But none approached their house.
"We don't celebrate anymore," Sam said quietly to a friend who'd stopped to ask why their porch was dark.
At the other end of the street, a moving truck sat in front of a different house. A new family was unloading boxes, and Laney could see a young mother holding a carved pumpkin, arguing with an elderly neighbor who was shaking her head adamantly.
Mrs. Hanley appeared beside the Dawsons, watching the scene with weary eyes. "Every few years," she murmured. "Someone new moves in. Someone who doesn't know. Someone who forgets."
As dusk fell, the new family placed their jack-o'-lantern on their porch and flicked on the light. It glowed cheerfully, casting orange shadows across their front yard.
Laney stood, her heart heavy. "Should we warn them?"
"Would they listen?" Mrs. Hanley replied.
As full dark descended on Maple Hollow Drive, three soft knocks echoed from somewhere down the street.
Then the sound of children's voices, flat and hollow: "Trick or treat."
Some rules exist for a reason. Some houses are meant to stay dark. And some Halloween nights, the dead still come knocking—waiting for someone to finally light the way home.
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Want more twisted tales? Browse the full Free Story Friday archive.
© 2025 Karen Cody. All rights reserved.
This original story was written exclusively for the Urban Legends, Mystery, and Myth blog.
Do not copy, repost, or reproduce without permission.
This tale may appear in a future special collection.
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