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When I was little, my friend Can and I decided to celebrate Halloween in the oldest house in our neighborhood. We slipped into that white-painted, cracked-shuttered place whose door hadn’t opened in years. The air inside was thick with dust; the carpet swallowed our footprints. As we climbed the stairs with our flashlights, a faint tapping came from upstairs. “Just the wind,” I said, but my voice shook. At the top, we found a child’s costume in front of the mirror: an old clown outfit, red nose broken, eyes empty. Can said, “Don’t touch it,” but I reached out. The moment my fingers brushed the fabric, the mirror showed the clown instead of me. It smiled. Its teeth were yellow. We ran. The tapping followed us down the stairs—faster this time. At the front door, we heard the lock click from outside. The key turned, but no one was there. Then the door swung open on its own. A cold gust hit our faces. We burst out; the streetlights flickered. We looked back: the clown costume hung in the window. But something was inside it. After that night, we swore never to go near the house on Halloween. But last year, Can’s mom called. “Can’s missing,” she said. “He told me he was going to that house.” coldspring1993

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