A short Halloween story.

🎃 “The Last Trick” 🎃 The town of Marrow Hollow had a rule: no one trick-or-treated past midnight. It wasn’t superstition—it was survival. Every year, the mayor reminded residents with flyers, sirens, and a chilling warning: “After midnight, the masks don’t come off.” Ronnie, a high school senior with a flair for rebellion and a devil-horned leather jacket, thought it was a joke. He and his friends—Maya, Dex, and Jules—decided to test the legend. Armed with flashlights, candy bags, and bravado, they prowled the streets at 12:01 AM. The town was eerily silent. No porch lights. No jack-o’-lanterns. Just fog curling like fingers around their ankles. At the end of Sycamore Lane stood a house no one remembered. It wasn’t there yesterday. Its windows flickered with candlelight, and a crooked sign read: “One Last Treat.” “Bet it’s a haunted house setup,” Dex said, pushing open the gate. Inside, the air was thick with rot and cinnamon. A woman in a porcelain mask greeted them. Her voice was syrupy and slow. “You’re late. But we do love guests.” She handed each of them a candy—wrapped in black wax paper, warm to the touch. Ronnie unwrapped his. Inside was a tooth. Human. Still bloody. He gagged. “What the hell is this?” The woman’s mask cracked with a smile. “A treat. Or a trick. You choose.” Suddenly, the door slammed shut. The walls pulsed, breathing. The wallpaper peeled back to reveal hundreds of masks—each one bearing the frozen expression of terror. Maya screamed. Jules tried the door. It wouldn’t budge. Then the house began to change. Dex’s skin bubbled like boiling water. He dropped to his knees, screaming as his face stretched into a grotesque grin. His eyes turned glassy. A mask. Jules backed into a mirror. Her reflection didn’t mimic her movements. It reached out, grabbed her, and pulled her in. She vanished. Her scream echoed from behind the glass. Maya ran upstairs, Ronnie close behind. The hallway twisted like intestines. Doors led to nowhere. One opened to a room filled with children’s costumes—each one twitching, whispering, “Wear me.” Maya tripped. Ronnie turned to help her, but she was already changing—her body shrinking, her voice becoming a giggle. She was now a doll in a ballerina outfit, eyes wide and hollow. Ronnie was alone. He stumbled into the attic. There, the porcelain woman waited, mask now shattered to reveal a face stitched together from others. She held a final mask—red, cracked, and smiling. “You came after midnight,” she whispered. “Now you stay.” Ronnie screamed as the mask fused to his face, his identity melting away. His voice joined the chorus of trapped souls echoing through the house. By dawn, the house was gone. But on Halloween night the next year, it returned—waiting for the next trickster who didn’t heed the warning. “After midnight, the masks don’t come off.” Want to turn this into a short film script or add a musical cue for the attic scene? I’m game to riff with you.