The Pumpkin on Willow Lane
Every Halloween, a single pumpkin appeared on the porch of the old Miller house. No one ever saw who left it. The house had been empty for years—ever since little Annie Miller vanished one October night.
This year, twelve-year-old Ben dared his friends he’d finally crack the mystery. At midnight, he biked down Willow Lane, breath clouding in the cold, moonlight glinting off broken windows. The pumpkin sat there, glowing faintly from within.
He crept closer. It wasn’t carved—just smooth, round, and perfect. But as he leaned in, he saw tiny fingerprints pressed into the orange skin. A child’s.
The candle inside flickered, and a shadow moved behind the window—small, quick, and waiting.
Ben froze. Then, faintly, a girl’s voice whispered from the porch:
“Trick or treat… stay and play.”
The pumpkin’s light went out.
In the morning, the porch was empty again. Except for two pumpkins this time—each one with tiny fingerprints.