A Readers Halloween Tale

Ryan Cane 

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I still remember that Halloween night in 1965 as if it were yesterday. We lived on a military base back then, tucked away in the middle of nowhere. Rows of identical beige houses lined the streets in the married quarter’s community, and the kids knew each other by name. My dad was stationed there, and like the other kids, I spent my days running through the fields, sneaking into the hangars when the MPs weren’t looking, and pretending to fly the grounded planes. They called us “Base Brats”, and we thought we were untouchable until October 31st.

That Halloween night was different. The air was thick with something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, a tension that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I was only ten years old then, but I wasn’t stupid. Some stories floated around the base—rumours about what had happened in the forest before the houses went up in ’53, government experiments, a hiding place for convicted murderers and even an alien abduction.

But back to the story, that night, we were all out trick-or-treating, the kids bundled up in makeshift costumes, carrying pillowcases and plastic pumpkins. The streets were alive with the sound of laughter, and the smell of burning leaves hung in the air. My best friend Jimmy was with me, dressed as a cowboy, and I was a pirate, my plastic sword clanging against my leg as we ran from house to house. The base always went all out for Halloween—decorations in the windows, carved pumpkins on the porches, and some families even set up haunted houses in their garages.

But there was one house—number 23—that we never went near. It sat at the end of the street, dark and quiet, with its shutters closed tight. No one had lived there for years, at least not since I could remember. The adults said it was empty and that it was being used for storage, but the kids… we knew better. We dared each other to go up to the door, but no one ever did. 

Jimmy, though—he was braver than the rest of us. That night, after we’d collected more candy than we knew what to do with, he turned to me and grinned. “Let’s go to number 23,” he said.

I laughed it off, but I could feel the knot forming in my stomach. “No way,” I told him. “It’s haunted.”

“Come on, it’s just an old house,” he said, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the street lamps. “What’s the worst that could happen? We knock on the door, say ‘trick or treat,’ and maybe get the best candy on the base.”

I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t want to seem scared either. So I followed him. The closer we got, the more I felt this heavy, cold feeling pressing down on me. The house loomed before us, its windows like empty eyes staring out into the dark. The other kids stayed back, watching us from a distance, whispering and giggling, but their voices seemed far away.

We stood at the front steps of number 23, staring at the old wooden door. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and my mouth went dry. Jimmy, of course, was unfazed. He walked right up to the door and knocked.

The sound echoed through the night, louder than it should have been. For a long moment, nothing happened, and no one answered. I thought maybe we’d gotten away with it, that we could run back to the group and laugh it off.

Then, the door creaked open.

It didn’t open all the way—just a crack—but enough for us to see inside. The house was dark, and the air inside was musty and stale. A strange smell wafted out—something sweet, like old flowers mixed with rot.

“We should go,” I whispered, tugging Jimmy’s sleeve. But he was staring, his eyes wide.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice shaky for the first time that night. “Trick or treat?”

From the darkness, a voice answered. Soft, almost a whisper. “Come in.”

Before I could react, Jimmy pushed the door open wider, and that’s when I saw it. Just for a split second, in the dim light spilling in from the porch—a figure standing at the end of the hallway. It was faint, almost like a shadow, but I could make out the shape of a woman, her long hair hanging down, her eyes reflecting the light like glass. She was just… standing there, motionless, watching us.

Jimmy didn’t seem to notice her. He took a step inside, and I felt the chill immediately. The temperature dropped so fast I could see my breath in the air.

“Jimmy, we need to go,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding in my ears. But he ignored me and moved further into the house, his feet dragging like something was pulling him in. I was too scared to move. My legs felt like lead.

“Come closer…” the voice said again, this time louder but still in that eerie, sing-song tone. It wasn’t coming from the figure in the hallway. It was coming from deeper inside the house, from somewhere upstairs.

Jimmy paused at the bottom of the staircase, his head tilted to one side like he was listening. “Do you hear that?” he asked, his voice distant, almost dreamy.

I heard it, too. It was a soft rustling sound, like the faint whisper of fabric brushing against the walls. Then, there was a creak, the unmistakable groan of old wood bending under weight.

Suddenly, something darted across the top of the stairs—a flash of pale skin and dark hair. I grabbed Jimmy’s arm, my heart hammering against my ribs. “We have to get out of here!” I hissed, pulling him back toward the door. But it was too late.

The door slammed shut behind us with a deafening bang, echoing through the empty house like a gunshot. The darkness around us seemed to close in, thicker and heavier, like it was alive.

“Stay…” the voice whispered, now coming from all directions. “Stay with us.”

I could feel something cold brush against my neck, like icy fingers tracing my skin. Jimmy’s face had gone white, his eyes wide with terror as he finally realized that something was very wrong.

The figure at the end of the hallway began to move, gliding toward us without making a sound, her feet hovering just above the floor. Her mouth opened, but no words came out—just that horrible, soft rustling sound, like the wind through dead leaves. And then I saw them—two small children, standing behind her, their faces pale, their eyes hollow and dark, like they had been waiting for us all along.

I didn’t wait to see what would happen next. I grabbed Jimmy and yanked him toward the door, praying it would open. Somehow, by some miracle, it did. We tumbled into the night, gasping for breath, the cold air stinging my lungs.

We didn’t stop running until we reached the safety of the street, the other kids looking at us with wide eyes. No one asked what had happened. They didn’t need to. Everyone on that base knew.

We never spoke about that night again, but I’ll never forget how that voice whispered in the darkness, calling us inside. Even now, decades later, I can still hear it in my nightmares. 

“Stay with us…” it says. And sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if we had.