Short Story: The Trick-or-Treaters of Brookdale Glade
The night of Halloween is different in Brookdale Glade. While other villages celebrate with harmless fun, here, a shadow lingers over the festivities. Beneath the laughter of children and the warm glow of pumpkins, there is an unspoken rule, an ancient debt that must be paid.
Every year, three trick-or-treaters are chosen, their names whispered like a ghostly omen. And every year, they walk to the old house at the end of Wraith Lane, never to be seen again.
The Trick-or-Treaters of Brookdale Glade
Halloween night had always been special in Brookdale Glade. The little village, with its cobbled streets and ancient oak trees, seemed to awaken under the glow of flickering jack-o’-lanterns. Children in costumes giggled as they dashed from door to door, collecting sweets and showing off their elaborate disguises.
No one ever spoke about the old house at the end of Wraith Lane.
It stood apart from the rest of the village, veiled in gnarled ivy and looming under the weight of centuries. Its windows, dark and empty, watched the street like hollowed-out eyes. The villagers never went near it, not even in daylight. But on Halloween night, a peculiar tradition took place.
Every year, three trick-or-treaters, chosen seemingly at random, would be dared to knock on the ancient wooden door. And every year, the house’s door would creak open by itself, revealing nothing but yawning darkness within.
No one ever questioned how the children were chosen. It was an unspoken rule, a silent agreement that had existed for as long as anyone could remember. The names would appear, whispered through the town like an autumn breeze—sometimes scrawled on fogged-up windows, sometimes murmured by old women who refused to say more. No parent ever protested. No child was ever spared.
This year, it was little Tommy Miller, Bethany Wright, and Olivia Greene who stood before the house. Their pockets bulged with sweets, their cheeks flushed with excitement and sugar. They had been laughing only moments before, but now an eerie silence had settled over them.
“I dare you to knock,” Olivia whispered, nudging Tommy.
Tommy hesitated, then, summoning all the courage of his vampire costume, raised his fist and rapped against the heavy door. A deep, resounding boom echoed from within. The three children held their breath.
The door groaned and swung open.
Bethany let out a nervous giggle. “It’s just a silly trick.”
But the air inside the house was thick, pressing against them like invisible hands. A whisper curled through the darkness, too low to understand but impossible to ignore. Then, without warning, something tugged at Tommy’s sleeve. He yelped and stumbled backward. The others saw nothing.
Still, as if pulled by an unseen force, they stepped inside.
The door slammed shut behind them.
The candlelight from their pumpkins flickered against the dust-choked walls, illuminating faded wallpaper and an ancient grandfather clock that stood still at midnight. A cobweb-covered staircase led upwards into shadow.
“Okay, we’ve done it. Let’s go back,” Bethany said, voice trembling.
But the house had other plans.
A soft creak echoed from the stairs.
Then another.
And another.
From the darkness above, something was coming.
Olivia grabbed Tommy’s hand, pulling him toward the door, but no matter how hard they pushed, it wouldn’t budge. The whispers grew louder, overlapping, a chorus of voices neither young nor old, filled with longing, hunger.
A shadow stretched across the floor from the staircase, slithering towards them. It was neither solid nor liquid, but it moved as though it had purpose.
“Run!” Tommy shrieked.
They bolted through a side door, racing into what must have once been a parlour. Dust motes swirled in the candlelight, revealing portraits of children, their faces eerily similar to their own. The eyes in the paintings seemed to follow them.
Bethany gasped. “Tommy… Olivia… look.”
Beneath each portrait was a brass nameplate.
Tommy Miller.
Bethany Wright.
Olivia Greene.
They weren’t just similar. They were them.
A low, satisfied chuckle filled the room. The children turned, their stomachs sinking, as they saw the thing descending the stairs.
It was humanoid, but stretched unnaturally tall, its fingers long and bony, ending in dagger-like nails. Its face was shrouded in shadow, but its eyes—black pits that swallowed the light—pierced straight through them.
It whispered their names, then it grinned, revealing rows of needle-thin teeth.
Bethany screamed, but no sound came out – the house devoured it whole.
The candle flames flickered—and then went out.
On the morning of November 1st, the village awoke to another crisp autumn day. The children of Brookdale Glade went to school, their parents bustled about their routines, and the town carried on as it always did.
The only things that had changed were the portraits in the old house at the end of Wraith Lane.
Three new faces had joined the others.
© Colin Lawson 2020
© Colin Lawson Books