The Last Treat of Hemlock Lane
Leo was thirteen�too old for the costume, too old for the plastic pumpkin, and definitely too old for the house at the dead end of Hemlock Lane. Yet, the old Victorian drew him in. It stood dark and silent, its skeletal trees scratching the slate roof like bony fingers.
On its porch sat a chipped ceramic bowl, overflowing with standard fun-sized bars, but tucked deep inside was a single piece that was unwrapped: a smooth, jet-black sphere. It felt like cool, polished stone, not sugar.
A sign taped above the bowl read: "The Last Treat is the Best Treat."
Leo hesitated. He pocketed a few normal chocolates, then, driven by morbid curiosity, he snatched the black sphere and dropped it into his mouth.
It didn't taste sweet. It tasted of cold, sharp iron and dry, ancient dust. He swallowed quickly, grimacing.
Back on his own street, he rushed home, his trick-or-treating haul forgotten. He pulled off his mask and caught his reflection in the hallway mirror. For a split second, the glass didn't show Leo. It showed a flicker of deep, unsettling orange where his eyes should be, like a candle flame deep inside a pumpkin.
The orange vanished instantly, replaced by his own wide, slightly unnerved gaze. But when the porch light hit him from behind, his shadow seemed to linger a moment too long after he moved.
He knew then that the sphere wasn't candy. He was no longer just Leo; he was the first shadow of the next Halloween, already waiting to be cast.
Oneeechan
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