Hey1

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Cash Wash - Popyplay User: hey1

The Last Trick-or-Treater Maple Street was drowning in autumn. Crisp air carried the scent of woodsmoke and decaying leaves, and every porch blazed with jack-o'-lanterns – grinning, scowling, winking with candlelight. Costumed children shrieked with laughter, plastic bags rustling like dry leaves as they darted from door to door. Linda watched from her bay window, a mug of cider warming her hands. She’d handed out the last of her candy an hour ago – the satisfying thump* of empty buckets signaling the end of the night’s main event. Now, only the distant echoes of revelry and the rustle of wind through skeletal oaks remained. She was about to draw the curtains when a flicker of movement caught her eye. Down at the end of the street, near the old Miller place – long abandoned, its windows boarded like blind eyes – a small figure stood. Not running, not skipping. Just… standing. Watching the houses. Linda frowned. Most kids had been called home by now. This one was small, bundled in a dark, shapeless coat that seemed too big, hood pulled low. No discernible costume, just shadow. And they were holding something long and thin, almost like a stick, but held upright. Curiosity warred with the prickle of unease crawling up Linda’s spine. *Probably just a latecomer*, she told herself. *Maybe lost.* She grabbed the small bowl of leftover candy corn and miniature chocolate bars she’d kept back "just in case" and stepped onto her porch, the cool air sharp against her face. "Hey there!" she called, her voice sounding too loud in the sudden quiet. "Trick-or-treat?" The figure didn’t jump or turn. It simply… pivoted. Slowly, deliberately, until it faced her direction. The hood remained low, casting the face in deep shadow. The object in its hand – Linda could see it better now – wasn’t a stick. It was a broomstick. An old-fashioned, worn wooden broomstick, held vertically like a staff. "Come on up, sweetie," Linda said, forcing cheer into her voice, though it felt thin. "I’ve got a little something left." The figure began to walk. Not with the bouncy energy of a child, but with a slow, deliberate glide. Each step seemed unnaturally silent on the fallen leaves. As it drew closer, Linda noticed the coat wasn’t just dark; it was the deep, velvety black of a moonless night, and it seemed to absorb the porch light rather than reflect it. The air around the figure felt… colder. It stopped at the bottom of her porch steps. The hood tilted slightly upwards. Linda still couldn’t see a face, only deeper shadow within the cowl. But she felt the weight of its gaze, cold and ancient. "Trick… or treat?" The voice was a dry whisper, like dead leaves skittering across stone. It didn’t sound young. It sounded *old*. Linda’s hand tightened on the candy bowl. "T-treat, of course," she stammered, holding it out. The small, gloved hand that emerged from the oversized sleeve wasn’t a child’s hand. It was thin, almost skeletal, the skin stretched taut and greyish, like old parchment. It didn’t reach for the candy. Instead, it pointed a bony finger, not at the bowl, but directly at Linda’s chest. "Your turn," the whisper rasped. "For the taking." A jolt of pure, icy fear shot through Linda. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t Halloween fun. This was something else. Something that had waited in the shadows of Maple Street long before plastic pumpkins and store-bought costumes. "Go home," Linda said, her voice trembling but firm. She took a step back, onto the porch proper. "It’s late." The figure didn’t move. The pointing finger remained steady. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The cheerful jack-o'-lanterns on neighboring porches suddenly seemed like mocking faces. The wind died completely. Even the distant sounds of the neighborhood vanished, as if the world held its breath. Then, slowly, the figure lowered its hand. It reached into the deep pocket of its black coat. Not for candy. It pulled out a single, perfect, blood-red apple. It held it out towards Linda, the stem stark against the crimson skin. "Take it," the whisper urged, a strange, hollow hunger in its tone. "The last treat of the night. The sweetest one." Linda stared at the apple. It looked impossibly real, impossibly tempting, yet radiated a profound wrongness. She remembered the old stories whispered about the Miller place – tales of a reclusive woman who vanished decades ago, rumored to dabble in things best left alone, who was said to leave strange offerings on doorsteps on All Hallows' Eve. Offerings that were never meant to be accepted. "No," Linda breathed, the word barely audible. "I don’t want it." The air crackled. The shadow within the hood seemed to deepen, to *lean* forward. The temperature on the porch plummeted. Linda’s breath fogged in front of her. The cheerful glow of her own jack-o'-lantern flickered wildly, casting monstrous, leaping shadows. "**Take it,**" the whisper commanded, no longer dry, but sharp as broken glass. "**Or give something else.**" Panic surged. Linda slammed the screen door shut behind her, fumbling for the lock. She didn’t look back. She heard no footsteps, no angry cry. Just the soft, final *thud* of something heavy and wet hitting her porch step. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the door, heart hammering against her ribs. After a long, trembling minute, she risked a glance. The small figure was gone. Vanished as if it had never been. Only the blood-red apple remained, lying on her welcome mat, its surface gleaming wetly in the porch light. And beside it, nestled in the fallen leaves, was a single, perfect white bone – small, delicate, unmistakably a child’s finger bone. Linda didn’t sleep that night. She left the apple and the bone untouched on the step. In the morning, under the weak autumn sun, both were gone. Only a faint, coppery smell lingered near the door, and the memory of that ancient, hungry whisper: "Your turn." She never handed out candy on Halloween again. And every year, as the last trick-or-treaters faded into the night, Linda would stand at her window, watching the end of Maple Street, her hand unconsciously rubbing the cold spot on her chest where the bony finger had pointed. Waiting. Wondering if this year, the last trick-or-treater would come back… and what price the night might finally demand? Id: hey1

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