Halloween night in George Street was quiet that year. No parties, no decorations—just cold wind and fallen leaves scraping the pavement.
Edward almost forgot to put out her porch light, the unspoken signal that she had candy for the kids. It was nearly 10 p.m. when he heard the first knock.
A single, slow tap… tap… tap.
When he opened the door, a girl stood there alone. No parents, no flashlight. Just a plain dress and a plastic pumpkin bucket.
“Trick or treat,” she said softly. Her voice sounded distant, almost flat.
Edward smiled awkwardly. “You’re out late, kid. What are you dressed as?”
She didn’t answer. She just held out the bucket.
He dropped a few chocolates inside, and the girl looked up at him. For the first time, he saw that her face was pale—not makeup pale, but lifelessly pale. Her eyes didn’t quite reflect the porch light.
She turned and walked away down the street that had no other porch lights left on.
The next morning, the news said a twelve-year-old girl had been struck by a car on that same road—on Halloween night. The photo they showed was the same girl. Same dress. Same hollow eyes.
Edward left her porch light off the next year.
And every year after.
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