💰[$1,000] Tell us your spooky story 📚

[mebevex]

The Red Door
Old Mrs. Gable's house had a single, unsettling feature: a bright, glossy red door in the cellar, bolted shut from the outside. One Halloween, a group of teenagers dared their friend Leo to open it. With a rusty creak, the bolts slid back, revealing not a room, but pitch blackness and a smell like old, wet earth. When Leo stepped across the threshold, the door slammed shut instantly. The others scrambled to open it, but the bolts were inexplicably locked tight again, and from behind the wood, they heard a muffled, happy laughter that wasn't Leo's.

 

mebevex

[uzuhiko]

The Scarecrow's Watch

The old scarecrow stood sentinel in the cornfield, its burlap head tilted perpetually towards the decrepit farmhouse. As twilight deepened on Halloween night, its straw-filled arms seemed to subtly shift, casting longer, more menacing shadows. A child, trick-or-treating alone, noticed the scarecrow's button eyes were now glowing faintly red. A cold gust of wind rustled through the dry corn, and a low, guttural chuckle seemed to emanate from the scarecrow's fixed grin. The child froze, realizing the twine binding its wrists was slowly, deliberately, coming undone. With a final, terrifying creak, the scarecrow stepped down from its post, its gaze fixed on the retreating figure.

stake id: uzuhiko

[samfisherpog]

"A weird One"

The house at the end of the street was always dark. Most kids were too scared to trick-or-treat there. But that year, a single porch light was on.

My brother and I walked up the quiet path. The door was already open just but only a little. An old woman with a kind face smiled out at us. She held a big bowl of the most amazing candy we had ever seen.

"Take one each, dears," she said in a lower tone like almost whispering 

I always liked chocolate so picked a chocolate bar. But my brother, being greedy, grabbed a huge handful. The old woman’s smile didn't change, but her eyes went cold for sure still have that image in my mind.

We said thank you and left. When we got to the sidewalk, my brother opened his hand. The candy was gone. In his palm was a pile of dry, brown leaves. We turned back to look at the house. The light was off, and the house was dark and silent once more, as if it had never been awake at all. Very weird for sure

Stake id: samfisherpog 

Edited October 28, 2025 by samfisherpog

[odg8]

one day ı wıll be wın a bıllıon dolar jajaj its joke 

that's spooky enough i guess for eddie

 

stake id : odg8 

[widodari]

THIS IS BASED ON A TRUE STORY. 

I totally understand if you DO NOT believe me. 

Once upon a time, when I was about 12 or 13 years old, I was out trick-or-treating. This was the first time my parents let me go alone with my friends and no adults with us. 

The day started with my mom dropping me off at my friend Karim's house, where we were supposed to sleep over after trick-or-treating. We arrive and go into their house; my mom and I go into Karim's house, where I go to his room and our moms are catching up. 
We were super excited, so we ended up putting on our costumes and leaving early. We literally started trick-or-treating at like 3 PM, A couple of hours go by, a few more of our friends join us at this point, and we continue.  All of us live in the same neighborhood, so we had this plan where we all take a garbage bag; once all garbage bags are full, we drop them off at someone's house and get new garbage bags and do the same until all 4 of our houses have 4 bags full of candy in them. 

The first 2 rotations were done. My house and Karim's house remain, the plan was we go to my house next so we can get the last rotation of bags, go to Karim's, and all sleep there anyway. 

Jacob (one of the friends) then says he knows about a haunted house in the neighborhood. (Like a house setup where they try to scare you, not like haunted with ghosts.) We were all down, so we went. It was absolutely terrifying. There was a bit that scared me the most. We were stuck in a room with a coffin in the middle of it. And theres someone inside knocking, Karim opens the coffin... And nothing, its empty, I still dont know how it was knocking. But then after we openend it, the door I was standing next to started knocking. When I went to open it, it was a guy wearing a clown mask right in my face, I got so scared, and started crying. 

We eventually got through it and got out, and it was fully dark out. We got our bags and started going at. We were youngings with a mission at the end of the day. We go for a bit and the bags are starting to fill up. My house is next, and I'm supposed to be really excited, but I have this really bad feeling in my gut, and I keep thinking about the knocking from the haunted house; I just felt off. We fill the bags and start heading to my house. Now mind you when I go home I just enter, I dont knock or ring the bell, I just walk in. 

So me and all my friends go into my house, and the lights are off. I was kind of weirded out because my parents would usually always just be in the living room, which is right there in front of the front door. We drop the bags off in the kitchen and notice that no one is there either. I tell my friends to chill and get a drink or something while I go upstairs to check if their there. 

As I am walking upstairs I start hearing the knocking again, it sounded so real. Every step I took up was synced with a knock, and it kept getting louder and louder and louder, so I start having a bit of a panic attack, and im just slowely going up the stairs. Once I got up I realized the noise wasnt in my head, it was real. 

I was hearing the knocking in my house, and it was coming out of my parents' room. All I can think about is the clown as I start tearing up walking up the door, it got so loud once I was behind the door. 
It sounded exactly like the coffin. 

I open the door fast, and there it was. 
My parents aboslutely fucking eachothers brains out.  Truly a scary scene, and permanent fear. 

->>> stake: Widodari

[maahiag]

It was a sunday night, I’m down 800$ already and I buy a zeus vs hades bonus. 6 spins in and I have 4 sticky wilds on the board. At the end of the buy I was still down 100$…

[Hamoodabouzaid]

Every year, I treat Halloween like it’s my own personal holiday. I love the vibe, the costumes, the dark comedy of it all. But last Halloween… something actually happened. And I still can’t explain it.

 

I was carving a pumpkin late at night — scrolling Stake.com on my phone between cuts, thinking about a spooky casino theme for the design. I remember laughing to myself like, “Imagine if this pumpkin actually glowed like the neon on the site.”

 

Then, right after I carved the last line, the room went ice cold.

 

The candle inside the pumpkin lit by itself.

 

At first I thought maybe a draft hit the lighter I left nearby, but the flame flickered bright blue — not orange. Blue… like Stake’s neon glow. I stepped closer, slowly, and I swear on everything… the carved shapes started changing.

 

The dice rolled.

The cards flipped.

The diamonds sparkled like real glass.

 

I backed up real fast, but that’s when I heard it:

 

“Place your bet.”

 

A voice. Whispering. Calm. Right behind me.

 

I spun around — no one. But the pumpkin started glowing brighter, symbols pulsing like a heartbeat. And then the ghost of a face pushed through the inside of the pumpkin wall — screaming silently.

 

I grabbed my phone to take a video, but the screen glitched with a spinning roulette wheel. Every number flashing:

 

6… 6… 6…

 

My heart nearly stopped.

 

The lights cut out.

The voice whispered again: “Double or nothing…”

And then… everything went completely silent.

 

When the lights finally returned, the pumpkin was back to normal. No glow. No symbols. Just a normal carved pumpkin… except the inside was still blue and cold like ice.

 

I threw it out the next morning.

 

But sometimes… really late at night… I hear that same whisper:

 

“Place your bet…”

 

[Leon434]

In the fog-shrouded village of Eldermoor, old Widow Hargrove kept a lantern burning every night in her attic window. Children whispered that it signaled the dead, but no one dared approach until I, a curious traveler, knocked on All Hallows' Eve.
She invited me in with a toothless grin, offering tea that tasted of earth and iron.
As midnight struck, the lantern's flame turned blue, and shadows peeled from the walls like peeling paint. Hargrove's eyes glazed over; she murmured names of the long-buried, her voice echoing from the floorboards. Hands—cold, skeletal—gripped my ankles, pulling me toward the cellar stairs that hadn't been there moments before.
I fled upstairs, but the attic door slammed shut, trapping me with portraits whose eyes followed my every gasp. The lantern exploded in a burst of ghostly light, revealing Hargrove's true form: a hollow husk animated by the village's vanished souls.
Now, every night, my lantern burns in that same window, waiting for the next fool to knock. And if you see it flickering... run.

Stake: Leon434

[Gugun6745]

Story Last Friday night, August 28, 2025 at 1:30 PM Coming home from Jakarta, returning from Haurgelis station, arrived home at 1:30 AM. I was about to put the car in the garage in front of Lungkoneng Mosque, alone, when I suddenly saw behind the garage near the mango tree, there were very long white clothes hanging. I was so scared, I thought, ah, it's just a banana leaf in the spotlight 😀 I was still thinking positively.. and I didn't realize it was Friday night too... I continued to open the gate and put the car inside, when I opened the trunk of the car, it was quite strong.. suddenly from behind there was a fairly strong wind, after that the roof top shook, a very loud rumbling sound like someone was walking. I was still thinking positively, but when I started to realize it was Friday night, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Then I went back and saw behind the house, behind the tree, there were no white clothes perched on the tree... I was already weak and stiff. I wanted to run away from my house, far from the garage. I want to go out at 2pm and it's quiet, who wants to help? And this is just a glimpse of my experience, meeting a real ghost, I'm so stiff, I can't talk🤣🤣 I still get goosebumps even now when I tell that story 😭😭

Stake Id: Gugun6745

[Ahmed3679]

I still can’t say my name without tasting dust.

It started the night I moved into Aunt Clara’s house on Elm Street, the one nobody in the family wanted. I’m the last branch on the tree, so the keys fell to me. I told myself I was only staying long enough to sell the place, but the first night I slept there, something shifted.

I’m lying in the master bedroom—four-poster bed, moth-eaten canopy—and the house is breathing. Not creaking, not settling. Breathing. Slow, wet inhales through the floorboards. I sit up, phone in hand, 3:07 a.m. glowing red. That’s when I hear the scratching. It’s inside the wall behind the headboard, like fingernails looking for a seam.

I press my ear to the wallpaper. The scratching stops. Then a whisper, thin as a paper cut:

“Let me out, please.”

I yank back. My pulse is a drumline. I tell myself it’s rats, pipes, anything. But the next night it’s louder, and the whisper has my name.

I rip the wallpaper in strips. Dust billows like smoke. There’s a hole, no bigger than a fist, and inside is a doll—porcelain face cracked down the middle, one blue eye hanging by a thread. Its dress is stiff with something dark. I pull it free. The second my fingers touch the cold china, every light in the house dies.

Total black.

I stand there clutching the doll, heart jackhammering, and I feel it: tiny fingers curling around my wrist from the inside of my own arm. Not on my skin—inside the veins, the bones. The doll’s cracked mouth opens, but the voice that comes out is mine.

“Play with me,” it says, using my tongue.

I scream. The sound bounces back at me from every wall, layered, like a dozen versions of me screaming at once. I hurl the doll. It hits the floor and doesn’t break. Instead, it skitters—legs too long, joints bending wrong—under the bed.

I grab my phone, flashlight on, and shine it underneath. Nothing. Just dust and a single red ribbon that wasn’t there before.

I don’t sleep again. At dawn I’m in the attic, tearing through Clara’s journals. One page is glued shut. I pry it open with shaking fingers. Her handwriting:

“The child in the walls isn’t dead. She’s waiting for someone with the same blood. Give her the doll or she’ll wear you instead.”

I laugh—actually laugh—because I’m losing it. I go back to the bedroom, planning to burn the doll in the backyard. But the doll is on the pillow. My pillow. And it’s holding a lock of my hair.

That night I sit in the kitchen with every light on, knife in one hand, doll in the other. I’m talking to it—yeah, I’ve crossed that line. “What do you want?” I ask. The doll’s head turns. Slow. The cracked eye fixes on me.

“I want to go home,” it says with my voice. “Inside.”

I feel it then: a tug behind my eyes, like something threading a needle through my skull. My reflection in the toaster’s chrome surface smiles while I don’t.

I run. Barefoot down Elm Street at 2 a.m., doll clutched to my chest because I can’t let go—my fingers won’t open. Behind me, the house exhales one last time, satisfied.

I’m writing this from a motel off the highway. The doll sits on the nightstand, staring. Every so often my left hand moves on its own, stroking its hair. I think it’s almost done unpacking.

If you inherit a house on Elm Street, burn it before you sleep.

And whatever you do, don’t listen when the walls start using your voice to beg.

ID:  Ahmed369

[Matteo001]

On halloween morning, I woke up to knocking on my front door at 6 am. I had no idea who could be in front of my door at 6 am on a saturday, so I opened the door. It was a group of 3 who played trick or treat on me on 6 am. I gave them candy and got back to sleep.

Stake ID: Matteo001

[Geekvape]

 

User : Geekvape 
 

The Whisper Behind My Wall

 

 

I still don’t know what it was.

But I swear to you — it really happened.

 

It was one of those nights when you just can’t fall asleep. I was lying in bed, the room completely still, only the ticking of the clock in the living room breaking the silence. I remember how loud it sounded. Every tick felt like it was right next to my head.

 

And then there was this whisper.

Very faint, barely audible — but real.

Right behind the wall, beside my bed.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. But then… I heard it clearly:

 

“…are you awake…?”

 

I pulled the blanket tighter around me. I didn’t want to move, didn’t even want to breathe. The whisper came again, lower this time, raspier — like there was breathing between the words.

 

Then it went silent.

And right then — knock, knock.

Twice. From the other side of the wall.

 

I jumped up, tried to turn on the light — but nothing. Power outage.

Pitch black. No hum from the fridge, no sounds from outside. Just silence.

 

And then it started.

That scratching sound.

Like fingernails dragging slowly across plaster.

Starting right at the wall by my bed — moving toward the door.

I just stood there, frozen, listening as it crept closer, inch by inch.

 

I don’t know how long it lasted. Maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour.

Then suddenly — everything stopped. No sounds. Nothing.

 

The next morning, I looked at the wall.

And there they were — four deep, fresh scratch marks in the plaster.

Exactly where I’d heard the whisper.

 

I never found out what it was.

But sometimes, when it’s quiet…

I hear it again.

[Spidy11]

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Halloween 2025

💰[$1,000] Tell us your spooky story 📚

 💰[$1,000] Tell us your spooky story 📚

 Topic will be automatically locked November 7, 2025 at 05:30 AM

By Jake7589
Yesterday at 11:07 AM in Halloween 2025

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Community Manager

Jake7589

Posted yesterday at 11:07 AM

 #1

📚 Tell us your spooky story 👻

Ends: 7/11/2025 @  1.00 AM GMT

Write an original Halloween-themed story that captures the spirit of the season 👻
It can be scary, mysterious, or just a little strange; your creativity is what counts. 🎨
Drop your stories below 💬

Requirements: 

Reply to this thread with your stories.

Include your Stake ID.

To have a valid entry, fill out the below form, providing your details 

HERE

Prize Pool: $1,000

Distributed to 20 randomly selected winners who meet the above conditions.

How to Enter:

Reply with your Stories

Include your Stake ID

Prize pool distribution:

Complete the challenge within the next 7 days for a shot at the prize pool.

Winners are limited to 20.

IMPORTANT: Don’t miss out! Stay tuned for the official winner announcements so you can grab your prize before the link expires. Users will not be credited after the 3 month time period ends.

Stake.com users only ‼

Terms of Service – Competition: 

For Full Terms of Service - Expand below Quote

  Quote

Stake Competition Terms & Conditions

This competition (“Competition”) is published by Stake, which operates the website stake.com (“Website”), and is subject to the Stake Terms and Conditions and the Stake Community Terms of Use in addition to the following competition rules (“Rules”).

If there is a conflict between the Terms and Conditions, these Rules, and the Stake Community Terms of Use, the following apply in order of precedence to the extent of any inconsistency:

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Your participation in the Competition is subject to the following Rules:

If you win a Competition, Stake will display your username associated with your account on the Website (“Account”) on the Competition post thread, along with a link to a coupon to claim your Prize on your Account (“Prize”).

The Community Team may contact you via the social media platform used to submit your entry or your Account.

The Prize will be sent directly to your Account. You are responsible for providing accurate Account details. Stake does not accept liability for errors or delays due to incorrect details.

Unless confirmed otherwise in writing by Stake, your Prize will be given within 14 days of the Competition ending.

Winners are selected at random from all eligible submissions.

You may only submit one entry. Multiple entries will result in only the first being valid, and all others void.

Eligibility Criteria

To be eligible to participate, you must:

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 2

 1

 1

ralfonso

Posted yesterday at 11:45 AM

 #2

“The Stake Collector” 🎃 

Eddie thought it was just business—cutting the Stake Casino bonuses short. Numbers, reports, nothing personal. But on Halloween night, the numbers started whispering.

Screens flickered with usernames long deleted. The chat box typed on its own: “We want what’s ours.”

Then the lights went out. From the shadows stepped a figure made of thousands of faint, glowing faces—every player he’d shorted, merged into one. Its voice was a chorus of rage.

“You took our luck,” it hissed, reaching out with hands made of code and static. “Now we’ll take yours.”

When the power came back, Eddie’s office was empty—just a monitor left glowing with a new message:

WEN MONTHLY...

 

Stake - ralphons

scheduleofplay

Posted yesterday at 11:55 AM

 #3

The jack-o’-lantern on the porch grinned with a single candle. 🕯️ 

Timmy, eight and alone, waited for his parents to come home from the party.

At 10:03 p.m. the flame turned blue.A small voice drifted from inside the pumpkin. 🎃

“Trade me your name for one wish.”Timmy leaned close. “I wish Mom and Dad were here.”The flame flared white. 

The pumpkin’s carved mouth closed.

The candle went out.Footsteps on the driveway. 🚶‍♀️🚶‍♂️

Two adults in cheap vampire capes stepped into the porch light. 🧛‍♂️🧛‍♀️

“Trick or treat,” they said in unison, voices flat.Timmy smiled. “You’re early.”The woman tilted her head. “Who’s Timmy?”The man shrugged. “Never heard of him.”They walked inside, calling for their son.

The pumpkin sat cold and nameless, smiling at an empty porch. 🎃

 

stakeid - scheduleofplay 

 

Random0120

Posted yesterday at 12:24 PM

 #4

Lena always turned off the bathroom light before bed, until that night.

She brushed her teeth, looked up, and saw her reflection smiling… though her own mouth was still closed.

She froze. The reflection tilted its head, grin widening, and slowly lifted a hand to the glass.

Then the light flickered.

When it came back on, the mirror was empty.

From the dark hallway behind her came a whisper... “Your turn.”

Stake - Johnkimmel1

igli09999

Posted 23 hours ago

 #5

I was driving home alone on a dark back road late one night when I saw a figure in a heavy coat, standing totally motionless. When I stopped, the figure slowly tilted its head straight back to the black sky without turning its body, and let out a single sound that felt like pure cold. I didn't look back until I was a mile down the road, and of course, they were gone.

 

Id:igli0999

Floras

Posted 23 hours ago

 #6

A spooky poem for the spirits of yore.

The Crimson Brew

Beneath the trees where shadows creep,
Two witches woke the woods from sleep.
Their cauldron churned with spite and flame,
And whispered low each cursed name.

They stirred in venom, grief, and bone,
A tongue of ash, a lover’s moan.
The forest bowed, the air grew red,
As darkness crowned the day instead.

The sky then bled, the stars took flight,
The moon recoiled from burning light.
The village prayed, but prayers were few,
When dawn arose in crimson hue.

Two witches laughed, their work was through,
The heavens stained by what they brew.
And still each year when night turns red,
They wake the sky, and raise the dead.

Floras

Sattin

Posted 23 hours ago

 #7

🎃 "The Lantern in the Fog" 🎃

On a misty Halloween night, young Ellie wandered into the woods behind her grandmother’s house, chasing the flicker of a strange lantern. It bobbed gently in the fog, always just out of reach.

“Wait!” she called, but the lantern floated deeper into the trees.

Suddenly, the fog parted, revealing an old stone circle. The lantern hovered above the center, then slowly descended. Ellie stepped forward, and the moment her foot touched the stones, the lantern burst into a warm glow.

A whisper echoed through the trees: “Thank you, child. You’ve freed me.”

The lantern faded, and in its place stood a smiling ghost boy, no older than Ellie. He waved once, then vanished into the night, leaving behind a single glowing pumpkin.

Ellie returned home, the pumpkin in her arms, knowing she had given someone peace—and found a Halloween story no one would ever believe.

Stake ID : sattin

Edited 23 hours ago by Sattin

Nisha28

Posted 23 hours ago

 #8

 

🔪 The Mystery of the Last Lollipop 🍭

The October cold in town wasn't just chilly; it was heavy. Elara, our 'Candy Courier,' was on her final round on Halloween night.

Her last stop was on Cemetery Hill, at the Widow's House 🏚️. The house was always closed, but this year, a strange sign glowed on the gate: "Take One. Please." 🤫

On the porch was a small glass dish holding just one green lollipop. It shimmered as if magical. ✨

As Elara reached for it, a dry, rustling whisper came from the dark doorway: "It's the last one." 😱

A shadow detached from the darkness—tall, thin, and draped in webs. Its face was blank, and its eyes were deep, spinning black vortices 🌀.

"Take it, child," the shadow hissed. "But when you taste it, you'll forget all the good memories, all the jokes, and all the stories of this night. Only silence will remain." 💀

Elara looked at the lollipop. It was just sugar, but the price felt too high. She swallowed her fear and said: "I don't need a lollipop. I have the stories."

She pulled some old story notes from her bag. "I'll trade you these," she said. "A thousand new memories that keep the darkness busy." 📝

The shadow stared at the pile of notes, then the lollipop. It let out a dry laugh and vanished into the shadows. 💨

Elara left the lollipop untouched. She knew the real spirit of Halloween was in the thrill of the stories and the fun, which she carried with her. 🧡

 

Stake ID: Nisha288

 1

Ankur2222

Posted 22 hours ago

 #9

 rented a small room in an old Delhi building — nothing fancy, just cheap and close to work. The landlady mentioned that no one stayed long, but he didn’t ask why.

 

The first few nights were fine. But around 2:30 a.m. every night, he’d hear a faint ringing sound — like a mobile phone on vibrate, coming from the locked room next door. The door had been sealed shut with a wooden plank across it, so he assumed it was just wiring or rats.

 

One night, annoyed, he decided to check. He pressed his ear against the door — and the ringing stopped. Then, a voice from inside said quietly, “Hello?”

 

He froze, heart pounding. He backed away and went straight to bed.

 

The next morning, he told the landlady. She sighed, unlocked the old drawer, and showed him a rusted phone. “It was the last tenant’s,” she said. “He died in that room. I keep it turned off.”

 

But that night — the ringing started again.

Stake id: Ankur2222 

 

Akash182168

Posted 22 hours ago

 #10

So I moved into this old hostel near my college, and the warden warned me not to open the door if someone knocked after midnight, even if they whispered my name. I thought it was just an old superstition—until that night. Around 12:30, I heard a soft knock and someone whispering, “Riya…” I checked the peephole—no one. The lights flickered, my phone buzzed, and my roommate texted, “Don’t open it, I’m outside your door… someone’s whispering from inside.” That’s when I heard the voice again, right behind me—“I told you not to open the do or.”

 

Stake id Akash182168

 

Edited 21 hours ago by Akash182168

Zigzag89

Posted 22 hours ago

 #11

## The Whispering Woods

In the small town of Eldridge Hollow, October brought a chill that wrapped around the streets like fog. As the annual Halloween festival approached, an unusual unease settled over the community, especially near the Whispering Woods that bordered the town. Legends spoke of spirits haunting the woods, where wanderers had vanished without a trace.

One crisp evening, three friends—Lila, Jake, and Emily—decided to explore the woods, drawn by tales of ghosts and adventure. Armed with flashlights, they crept toward the tree line, excitement mingling with fear. As they entered the woods, the vibrant festival sounds faded, replaced by an eerie silence. The trees seemed to lean closer, their branches whispering, “Lila... Jake... Emily...”

“Did you hear that?” Lila asked, glancing nervously at her friends.

“It’s just the wind,” Jake replied, though doubt lingered in his voice. Despite Emily’s pleas to turn back, Lila urged them deeper into the forest.

They discovered a clearing bathed in moonlight, revealing a circle of ancient stones surrounding a weathered chest. Lila knelt beside it, brushing away leaves, her curiosity ignited. “What do you think is inside?”

Before they could decide, a sudden gust of wind swept through the clearing, and the whispers intensified, warning them to leave. Undeterred, Lila reached for the lock and opened the chest with a sharp click.

Inside lay not treasure but old photographs, tarnished jewelry, and letters sealed with wax. Each item pulsed with energy, and as Lila picked up a silver locket, the whispers transformed into frantic cries: “Put them back! It’s not yours!”

Panic surged. Jake grabbed Lila’s arm. “We need to leave—now!”

As they turned to escape, shadowy figures emerged from the trees, lost souls trapped within the woods. “You’ve awakened us,” one spirit lamented, its voice like rustling leaves.

In a moment of clarity, Lila dropped the locket. Emily stepped forward, her voice trembling. “We’re sorry! We didn’t mean to disturb you!” She began placing the items back into the chest. With each piece returned, the spirits began to fade, their sorrow lifting like mist.

Finally, with the last item back in place, the chest closed with a resounding thud, and the whispers quieted. The shadows receded, leaving only the soft glow of the moonlight.

Breathless, the friends hurried back through the woods, the chill of the night now mingled with relief. Emerging from the tree line, the festival sounds returned, washing away the memory of the shadows.

From that night on, the Whispering Woods remained a place of mystery, but the townsfolk spoke of it with renewed respect. Lila, Jake, and Emily learned that some secrets are best left undisturbed, and sometimes the bravest thing is to listen to the whispers of the past. Every Halloween, children gathered at the woods’ edge, sharing stories of the lost souls, forever mindful of the warnings echoing through the trees.
ID: zigzag89

Toxidrome

Posted 22 hours ago

 #12

The old house on Raven Hill was a local legend. Every Halloween, a single, sickly purple glow came from the porch, not like the warm, friendly pumpkins on our street. Old Man Alastar lived there, and folks said he didn't just carve his jack-o'-lanterns... he made deals with them.

This year, after he passed, the house went dark. So me and the guys, thinking we were brave, decided to check it out on a dare. The door creaked open easy. Inside, covered in dust, was the most incredible pumpkin I'd ever seen. The carving wasn't a silly face, but these intricate, swirling patterns that looked like dice, card suits, and symbols I didn't recognize. It was hollow, but the inside was... too dark. Like a void.

"Awesome souvenir," I said, and took it home.

I put it on my desk and, just for a laugh, screwed in a light bulb. The moment I switched it on, my room was bathed in that same cold, violet light. That's when I saw it—a shadow on the wall behind it. It wasn't mine, and it wasn't the pumpkin's. It was a tall, thin shadow of a man in a wide-brimmed hat. It turned its head and I heard a whisper, clear as day in my mind: "The bet is placed."

That's when my luck changed. And I mean, changed. I found money on the sidewalk. I won every silly bet with my friends. I even guessed the exact number of jellybeans in a jar at the county fair. It was crazy.

But then the dreams started. Visions of people I'd never met, their faces twisted with hope and despair. I'd wake up with the taste of coins in my mouth. My own memories started feeling thin, like someone was draping theirs over mine. I looked in the mirror yesterday and for a split second, I didn't see myself. I saw Old Man Alastar, and he was smiling.

I get it now. He wasn't haunting that pumpkin. He was using it to settle a debt, passing it on to the next sucker. The "good luck" was just the bait. The real jackpot was my soul.

The light just flickered on by itself. The shadow's back on the wall. It's waiting. Halloween is almost here, and I can feel my time running out. I need to find someone... someone to take this lantern off my hands. The game has to continue.

ID: Toxidrome

Edited 22 hours ago by Toxidrome

Kippo

Posted 21 hours ago

 #13

“The House That Waited”

 

Every October, the old Marrowby House came alive — not with people, but with whispers. The townsfolk of Elden Hollow said you could hear them if you stood close enough on Halloween night — voices that fluttered through the cracked windows like moths to a flame.

 

For thirty years, no one had dared to step inside. That is, until this year.

 

A group of friends — Nora, Eli, June, and Sam — decided to livestream a Halloween dare. “Twenty minutes in the Marrowby House,” Nora grinned, her flashlight beam slicing through the fog. “We’ll be legends.”

 

The house was a skeleton against the moonlight, its front door sagging like an open mouth. Inside, everything smelled of dust and memory. A grandfather clock stood still at 11:59 — its pendulum frozen mid-swing.

 

June laughed nervously. “Creepy, but not that bad.”

 

Then the door shut behind them.

 

Eli tried the handle. Locked.

 

From upstairs came a slow, deliberate thud. Then another. Then silence.

 

Sam aimed his phone’s flashlight at the staircase. “Maybe it’s just —”

 

A whisper cut him off. Soft, like someone standing too close. “You made it back.”

 

The light flickered. When it steadied, the stairs were empty — except for a small porcelain doll sitting on the third step. None of them had seen it before.

 

Nora swallowed. “Let’s just record a quick video and go.”

 

The clock ticked once. Once. Then, impossibly, it began to chime twelve.

 

Each chime echoed like a heartbeat through the house. With every toll, something changed. Wallpaper peeled back to reveal handprints. The air grew thick with the smell of iron. Shadows gathered in corners, taking the shape of something almost human.

 

June whispered, “It’s counting us.”

 

On the twelfth chime, the house went silent. Then, a woman’s voice — faint but clear — drifted through the halls.

 

“Four came in… three will leave.”

 

Their flashlights blinked out.

 

Only Nora’s camera survived — found the next morning, propped neatly on the porch steps. The footage showed her running through the house, breathing hard, calling out her friends’ names. But the final frame froze on her face — eyes wide, mouth open — staring at something behind the camera.

 

And then… a whisper.

“Welcome home.”

 

Every Halloween since, the Marrowby House has glowed faintly from within, as though the lights were back on. Some say it’s just kids playing tricks.

Others say it’s Nora, waiting for the next group of four.

stake id : Leesyztmzgyi 

ruthlessunruly

Posted 21 hours ago

 #14

i'm here for the money, that's spooky enough i guess.

 1

sirohi164

Posted 21 hours ago

 #15

stakeに入金すると、、、、

不気味なほどにゲームに没頭。周りが見えない程、熱くなって、残高が、、、😆

 

ID:sirohi164

kamechan

Posted 21 hours ago

 #16

The demon in my house was scarier than Halloween.🎃

When I was little, I had English class on Halloween.📕👦

I was little, so I skipped English class and got my allowance to use for Halloween gifts, but I tried to keep it for myself.🤑

When I got home, my mom found out I'd skipped English class.

The angry look on her face at the time made it seem even scarier than Halloween. She looked like a real demon to me.

I was the one in the wrong, after all.

But now, I look back on it as a fond memory, knowing that it helped me raise a good child.🤣

 

kamechan

foxjoker9

Posted 21 hours ago

 #17

The old house on the hill was always silent. But on Halloween night, a single candle flickered in its attic window. Kids dared each other to knock.

Tommy, the bravest, climbed the creaking porch. Before he could knock, the heavy door swung open with a groan. Inside was only darkness and the smell of dust.

A whisper, dry as dead leaves, echoed from within: "The candy is inside... but so am I."

The door slammed shut. The candle went out. Tommy was never seen again. Now, every Halloween, a new candle lights in the attic, waiting for the next brave soul.

[Rafet]

🎃 “The Pumpkin That Whispered Back” 👻

On the edge of the quiet town of Hollowbrook stood an old farmhouse, long abandoned but always decorated every Halloween. Nobody knew who did it—every October 31st, glowing pumpkins would appear on the porch, carved with eerie precision and faces that seemed to shift when you weren’t looking.

This year, twelve-year-old Mara decided she’d find out who was behind it. She waited until sunset, when the mist began curling over the fields and the sky turned the color of dying embers. With her flashlight in one hand and her courage in the other, she crept toward the farmhouse.

As she stepped onto the creaking porch, she saw them—rows of pumpkins, their carved grins flickering in time with the wind. One in the center caught her eye. It was huge, its jagged smile almost lifelike, and carved into its forehead were the words:

“LISTEN CLOSELY.”

Mara laughed nervously. “Nice try,” she muttered. But then she heard it.

A whisper. Soft at first—like the rustling of dry leaves. Then clearer.
“Do you want to know who I am?”

Her flashlight flickered. She took a step back. “Who’s there?”

The pumpkin’s flame flared, and the other pumpkins began to hum—low, hollow sounds that rattled through the porch boards.
“Every year, someone new listens,” the voice said.
“Every year, someone stays.”

The air turned cold enough for her breath to fog. “Stays?” she whispered.

The pumpkin’s carved mouth twisted wider, revealing something deep inside—an orange glow that pulsed like a heartbeat.
“Carve your name, and you’ll see,” it hissed.

Mara’s hands trembled, but she couldn’t look away. Almost without realizing it, she picked up a knife lying beside the pumpkin and began to carve the first letter of her name.

The instant she finished, the whisper became a scream—and then silence.

The next morning, the townsfolk noticed something new on the porch.
A fresh pumpkin, smaller than the rest, carved with a girl’s smiling face and the name MARA etched beneath it.

And if you pass the farmhouse on Halloween night, you can still hear her voice among the whispers—softly calling, “Listen closely…”

 

Stake id: Rafetrza

[even666]

The Wager of the Whispering ShadowsIn the fog-shrouded town of Eldridge Hollow, where autumn leaves whispered secrets to the wind, Halloween night always carried an extra chill. The old casino on the hill, known as "The Stake," had stood abandoned for decades—ever since that fateful All Hallows' Eve when its owner, Silas Crowe, vanished mid-game, leaving behind only a deck of cards that seemed to shuffle themselves.Young Mia, a thrill-seeker with a penchant for the macabre, had heard the legends. They said that on Halloween, the casino's doors creaked open of their own accord, inviting the bold to play one final hand. The prize? Unimaginable riches. The cost? Your soul, if the shadows won.This year, under a blood moon, Mia pushed through the rusted gates. The air inside was thick with dust and the faint echo of laughter from long-dead gamblers. Cobwebs draped the roulette wheels like veils, and slot machines flickered with ghostly lights, their reels spinning tales of forgotten fortunes.At the center of the grand hall sat a poker table, illuminated by a single flickering candle. Across from an empty chair, a shadowy figure materialized—Silas Crowe himself, his face a skeletal mask etched with eternal regret. "Care to stake your luck?" he rasped, his voice like crumbling leaves.Mia sat, her heart pounding. The cards dealt themselves: aces and eights for her, the dead man's hand. Silas grinned, revealing teeth like jagged dice. "The house always wins," he murmured, as the room grew colder. Bats fluttered from the rafters, and whispers slithered from the walls—voices of lost players begging for one more chance.As the game unfolded, visions assaulted Mia: spectral chips stacking into towers of gold, then melting into rivers of blood. She bluffed with a queen of hearts, but Silas countered with a joker that twisted into a screaming skull. The stakes rose—not just money, but memories. Mia felt her childhood joys slipping away, replaced by the hollow thrill of endless bets.In a final, desperate all-in, Mia revealed her flush. Silas laughed, a sound that shook the chandeliers. His hand? Four aces, each bearing the face of a previous victim. But as he reached for her soul, Mia noticed the candle's flame—dancing unnaturally, revealing a hidden ace up her sleeve, etched with a protective rune from an old town folklore book.With a defiant flip, she won. The shadows screamed, retreating into the cracks. Silas faded, whispering, "The game never ends... it just waits."Mia stumbled out into the dawn, pockets heavy with ethereal gold that turned to leaves by morning. But every Halloween since, she hears the shuffle of cards in the wind, a reminder that some wagers linger beyond the grave.Happy Halloween—may your stakes be ever in your favor.

 

 

 

ID:evenhong

[Lazio9]

I'd = Lazio9

Two sisters were at home while their parents were out at an event one evening. They stayed up late, talking and telling spooky children’s stories in the older sister’s room. Suddenly, their conversation was interrupted by the sound of loud music. They looked at each other, confused and unsure of where the music could be coming from. The older sister got out of bed and began walking down the hallway. It sounded like the music was coming from their parents’ room. She peered into the dark room, saw her father’s laptop open—screen on, music blaring. And right then, the music stopped.

Scared, the girl ran back to her room, where her younger sister was waiting on the bed. Frightened, she shut the bedroom door behind her and got back under the covers, holding her little sister tight. They heard slow, heavy footsteps, one after another, heading toward their end of the hall. When the footsteps stopped—BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! Three hard knocks on the bedroom door. No one came in, but they certainly didn’t try to leave the room for the rest of the night 

 🎃 🎃 HAPPY HALLOWEEN STACK 🎃 🎃 

 

[AxelB28]

When I was young I used to sleepwalk and one night I woke up to my dad yelling at me from the steps outside. I realized I was outside and saw 3 people that were waving for me to go to them. I immediately ran to my dad and went inside. He kept asking me who those people were but I had no idea. They had black hoodies on and looked like shadows. They were all waving for me to go to them. I don’t remember walking outside at all. Lucky my dad heard me open the back door. Still remember that to this day. 
 

Stake id: AxelB28

 

[Zezo652]

I shouldn’t have answered the door that night, but loneliness makes you stupid.

It was a storm like I’d never seen—rain lashing the windows of my apartment on the 13th floor, thunder cracking like bones. I’m scrolling through my phone, alone as usual, when the knock comes. Three sharp raps, deliberate. I check the peephole: nothing but the empty hallway, emergency lights buzzing red.

I open it anyway. There’s a package on the mat, soaked through, no label, no sender. Just my name scrawled in black ink that doesn’t run in the wet. I bring it inside, figuring it’s a mix-up. Unwrap it on the kitchen table: inside is a mirror. Antique, ornate frame crusted with tarnish, glass fogged like breath on a window.

I wipe it clean with my sleeve. My reflection stares back—same tired eyes, same messy hair. But as I turn away, I catch it: the me in the mirror doesn’t move. It stays, watching.

I laugh it off—trick of the light, right? Hang it in the bedroom anyway, because why not? That night, I wake up at 3:13 a.m. to a tapping sound. Like fingers on glass. The mirror’s across from the bed, and in it, my reflection is sitting up while I’m still lying down. It waves.

Heart in my throat, I bolt out of bed, flip on the lights. The reflection matches me now, mocking. I cover it with a sheet and crawl back under the covers, telling myself it’s sleep paralysis or whatever.

Next morning, I search the frame for clues—find an engraving on the back: “See yourself as I do.” Creepy, but old mirrors have weird histories. I leave it covered. That evening, while cooking, I hear humming from the bedroom. My voice, but not mine—off-key, like a bad recording. I yank the sheet off: the mirror shows me in the kitchen, stirring a pot that isn’t there yet.

It’s predicting me. Or leading.

I smash it that night. Glass shatters everywhere, seven years bad luck be damned. Sweep it up, bag it, toss it in the dumpster outside. Relief washes over me. Sleep comes easy for the first time.

But at dawn, I wake to tapping again. Not from the wall—from inside my head. I stumble to the bathroom mirror, the one that came with the apartment. My reflection grins, teeth too sharp. “You can’t break what’s already inside,” it says with my mouth, but I’m not speaking.

I claw at my face, trying to stop it. Blood streaks the glass. Now every reflective surface does it: windows, phone screens, even puddles on the street. They all show a version of me that’s one step ahead, whispering secrets I don’t want to know. Like how I’ll die alone, or worse—how I’m not alone anymore.

I’m typing this on my cracked phone screen, the one that reflects a hand reaching out from behind my shoulder. If a package shows up at your door with no name, burn it. And whatever you do, don’t look too long at what stares back. It might decide to come through.

ID:  Zezo369 

[djsteveburn]

🎃 Halloween Story Entry — “The Lantern That Follows” 👻

 

On the edge of a quiet town stood an abandoned orchard, long forgotten by everyone except the crows. Each year on Halloween night, a single lantern appeared between the trees. It glowed with an ember-orange light, as though fueled by a heartbeat rather than a flame.

 

Locals said the lantern did not simply shine. It watched.

 

This year, curious children dared one another to approach the orchard. They laughed loudly to conceal their fear, their shoes crunching over leaves like bones underfoot. When they reached the gate, the lantern flickered alive, as if greeting them.

 

One boy, braver than the rest, stepped forward. His breath formed clouds in the unnaturally cold air.

 

“Who left this here?” he asked.

 

The lantern floated upward in response.

 

The flame twisted into a shape that resembled an eye. A voice, no louder than the wind, whispered:

“You left me.”

 

Terrified, the children turned to run, but the trees bowed inward, closing off the path. The orchard itself had awakened. Roots writhed like fingers, pulling them deeper between the shadows.

 

Where the lantern passed, carved pumpkins emerged from the soil, each bearing a new, wide-open mouth shaped into a silent scream. The lantern drifted closer, revealing that their eyes were not candlelight. They were reflections of the children’s own fear.

 

The voice returned, stronger this time:

“One of you must carry the lantern… so I may rest.”

 

The brave boy trembled, yet extended his hand. The lantern lowered gently. The moment he touched it, the flame turned crimson, and the orchard fell still.

 

The pumpkins sank.

The trees relaxed.

The children escaped.

 

Except one.

 

Every Halloween since, the lantern returns.

Its light no longer searches outward…

It searches for a replacement.

 

This year, it might search for you.

Stake 🆔: djsteveburn 🎧

[Kingkator]

In the town of Hollow, where the fog clung to the streets like a lover’s reluctant embrace, stood an old Victorian house on Maple Lane. It had been empty for decades, its windows like hollow eyes staring out at passersby. When Eliza inherited it from a distant aunt she barely remembered, she saw it as a fresh start—a place to escape the noise of the city and focus on her painting.

The house was a relic, filled with antique furniture draped in dust sheets and walls covered in faded wallpaper. The pattern was peculiar: swirling vines intertwined with what looked like faint faces, barely discernible unless you stared too long. Eliza dismissed it as Victorian whimsy and set up her studio in the sunroom, where the light filtered through grimy panes.

Her first night was uneventful, save for the creaks of settling wood. But as she unpacked, she noticed a soft sound emanating from the walls—a whisper, like wind through leaves, but articulate. Words? No, just her imagination, she thought, exhaustion playing tricks.

By the third day, the whispers grew clearer. Eliza was sketching a landscape when she heard it: “Stay… with us.” She froze, charcoal snapping in her grip. She peeled back a corner of the wallpaper in the hallway, revealing layers beneath—older patterns, more faces, etched deeper, as if screaming silently.

That night, sleep evaded her. The whispers multiplied, a chorus murmuring names she didn’t recognize: “Amelia… Thomas… Eliza…” Her own name sent chills racing down her spine. She bolted upright, heart pounding, and grabbed a flashlight. In the beam’s glow, the wallpaper seemed to shift, the vines undulating like veins pulsing with life.

Desperate, she researched the house online from her phone—nothing but old listings. But in the attic, amid yellowed letters, she found a diary from 1892. It belonged to her great-great-aunt, who wrote of “the walls that listen and remember.” The aunt had invited mediums, only for them to flee, claiming the house trapped souls in its very fabric, woven into the paper during a forbidden ritual to preserve the dead.

Eliza laughed it off at first, but as midnight struck, the whispers turned to pleas: “Join us… paint us free.” Compelled, she returned to her studio, brush in hand. Without thinking, she began to paint—not her landscape, but the faces from the walls. Each stroke brought relief; the whispers softened.

By dawn, the canvas was alive with grotesque visages, twisted in agony. Exhausted, Eliza collapsed. When she awoke, the painting was blank. But the wallpaper… it had changed. Her own face now stared back from the vines, eyes wide with terror.

She tried to scream, but her voice joined the chorus—trapped forever in the whispering walls, waiting for the next inheritor to set her free. Or join her.

[amyybtxo]

Am(i) Crazy ? 

I looked in the mirror, and scared myself, and no this isn’t a haha joke, for real I nearly slipped, I just got out of the shower and it was all steamed up still,and when I looked in the mirror, I wasn’t expecting to see someone else, but to be honest it was someone so familiar, Instill can’t put my finger on it, literally I couldn’t,  I know if I did,  I knew I would of been sucked in, I rubbed my eyes thinking I was tripping out and when I stopped, it was me again, the person on the other side was trying to reach out I think, they looked at me with such urgency that I still see it to this day.   
 

Then I went to ask AI to write me a original story for stake because I found mine seems kinda crappy, ^^ meanwhile the light in front of me is flickering, when I went to read AI’s short story it’s well written yes, but super almost close to what I have written. So I am going to share it as well 

“On a moonlit Halloween night, you stumble upon a mysterious, ancient mirror in your attic. As you gaze into it, your reflection glitchily flickers and reveals a shadowy figure lurking behind you, whispering your name. Turning around, you find nothing but the cold, empty room. But when you look back into the mirror, the figure is now inside, its dark eyes boring into yours. Suddenly, the surface shatters, and you wake up — or so you think — only to realize the mirror now hangs on your wall, showing your exact reflection... with a new, sinister smile.”

 

SOS creeped out, send help, I scared myself.  Ffs. 🤦‍♀️ That’s what I get for trying to get ideas from a robot. 
 

STAKE ID : amyybtxo 

[長尾敏明]

霧の深い夜、古い洋館で開かれたハロウィンパーティー。仮面をつけた客たちは笑い声をあげ、音楽に酔いしれていた。だが、鐘が12回鳴ると同時に、誰も知らない仮装の男が現れる。彼の周りだけ空気が冷たく、笑い声が止んだ。

「やっと、招かれたよ」

低い声が響くと、蝋燭の火が一斉に消えた。暗闇の中、残されたのは一枚の古い招待状。そこにはこう書かれていた——「百年前に失われた魂たちへ」。

 

iiotoko2

[just4game]

When i wake up my life is broken

 

 

just4game 

[eren9638]

🕯️ The Whispering Lantern

 

On Halloween night, the quiet town of Eldergrove was swallowed by fog thicker than ever before. Children laughed in the distance, their voices echoing like ghosts through the mist. But on the edge of the old cemetery, a single lantern flickered — glowing with a strange, orange-blue flame.

 

Eren had walked that path a hundred times before, but tonight… the lantern whispered his name.

“Eren… Eren…”

 

He froze. The sound wasn’t carried by the wind — it came from inside the light itself.

Curious and trembling, he lifted the lantern by its rusty handle. Inside the glass, shadows swirled like smoke, forming faces — familiar ones — people from the town who had disappeared years ago.

 

Then the whisper turned into a voice.

“Light the way home… or stay with us forever.”

 

The fog thickened. The candle burned brighter. And when the sun rose the next morning, the lantern still stood there — its flame calm, its whisper silent. But now, if you listen close enough, you might hear another name inside.

 

Stake ID: eren9638

[Tauraxus]

Pipkin and the Last Line

On Halloween, the town library breathes.

It’s a soft thing—you don’t notice if you’re talking, if you’re laughing, if you’re counting the candy you swear you didn’t eat yet. But if you stand on the cracked steps of the old printworks where the library moved after the flood, you can feel it: a hush that exhales cold over your knuckles and draws the night a little closer. I keep the keys now. Someone has to. Someone has to make sure the bindings don’t unspool and the dead stories don’t forget themselves.

At 10:11 p.m., while the cul-de-sac hollered at a skeleton dog that turned out to be a very alive corgi in a hoodie, I unlocked the lobby and sniffed the air the way I always do. Paper, dust, and something sweet—like melted sugar left too close to a candle.

That was new.

I followed the sweetness through Periodicals, past the moon-silvered photocopier that only prints blank pages on Halloween, and into Children’s—where the aisles are lower, the shadows are kinder, and the floor creaks like polite applause. There, near a display of pumpkin books that had all quietly arranged themselves by scariness, I met him.

He popped his head up from a picture book and froze at the sight of me: a very small ghost with a sheet made from old checkout slips. The slips were stitched together with red thread and stamped with years of due dates. Two shiny black buttons were sewn on for eyes. He had little candy-corn horns crocheted to his hood and a mouth that looked like it had been drawn with charcoal, then erased, then drawn again. He held a lollipop like a lantern.

If you’ve ever seen a dust bunny decide it has a soul—if you’ve seen a teacup think about screaming—if you’ve seen a child’s lost mitten turn around—then you know the feeling. It wasn’t fear. It was the feeling of the night that decided we were going to be honest with each other.

“Hi,” I said, because you should always say hi to anything made of story.

The little ghost squeaked and dropped into the book, so only the lollipop and the tops of his candy horns were visible. A beat later, he rose again in the deliberate way of someone practicing bravery.

“I’m not supposed to talk to librarians,” he whispered. His voice wasn’t a voice. It was the sound of turning a page.

“Good,” I said. “I’m not a very good one.”

He thought about that, then drifted a cautious inch closer. He smelled like sugar skulls and cold ink. A gum wrapper clung to his trailing edge.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

He gnawed on the lollipop stick. “I… I’ve had a lot. Boo. Button. Baby Bat. Picking one is like choosing your favorite marshmallow in the bag. But tonight I’m Pipkin.”

“Of course you are,” I said, because the night loves when you agree with it. “Why does the library smell like a candy drawer?”

Pipkin’s button eyes flicked toward the ceiling. The lights hummed. The printworks sighed. From somewhere out on Bellwether Street, a cheer rose and fell like a wave—someone got a king-size bar, or saw something they weren’t ready to see.

Pipkin leaned in. “Because something is hungry,” he breathed. “And it doesn’t eat what people eat.”

“Books?” I asked, already feeling protective.

“Endings,” Pipkin said, and shivered. His sheet crinkled like old paper. “It comes every time the leaves go sharp. It smells the last lines. If it swallows them, stories can’t finish, and then they can’t find their way back next year, and then the world forgets how to be brave because how do you practice if you never hear how the brave part goes?”

He pointed his lollipop at a book display: The Last Pumpkin Walk. I knew that book. An old town tale: lanterns in the fog, a promise, a safe return. On the shelf, every copy had a torn corner at the back. Their last page was missing.

“I was trying to hold them,” Pipkin said, small and ashamed. “But I’m only a little monster ghost. And it’s bigger this year.”

“What is?”

Pipkin swallowed. You could see the path the lollipop took as it vanished into storytelling logic. “The Hollow. It’s the part of the night that’s missing its face. It can’t scare you on purpose; it scares you by taking away the part of the story that tells you what the fear was for.”

The library breathed out again. A draft spiraled around our ankles like a cat deciding whether to forgive. Somewhere deep in the Archives, something metallic clicked—one of the old presses turning itself by a notch.

“Show me,” I said.

We went back through Reference, where the atlases had quietly slid open to maps of the town as it was, as it will be, and as it remembers itself being. Pipkin drifted at my side, leaving a faint trail of glittering sugar, which I didn’t point out because dignity matters even if you’re only three feet and made of paper.

We descended the iron stairs into the basement. The typesetters slept there: cumbersome, beautiful machines with levers like ribs and trays of letters organized into tiny cities of meaning. The sugar scent was stronger here. Pipkin frowned. “It’s learning. It knows where words are born.”

At the far wall, something glimmered like gasoline on water. The Hollow was not a shadow. Shadows know what they belong to. This was an unclaiming. It was an absence, bright around the edges with a color your eyes refuse to name. As we watched, an invisible mouth pulled letters out of a tray—first the capital T’s, then the more nervous lower-case ones—each little sound gulped like a cough you don’t want anyone to hear.

“Hey,” I said, because you can say hey even to cosmic hunger. It turned. You can’t look at something that doesn’t have a face, but it looked back anyway. The room cooled over the years. The damp on the brick glittered like salt.

Pipkin bobbed, tiny fists in the air. “You can’t have them!” he squeaked. “Not the last lines.”

The Hollow breathed in.

Rows of type whispered toward it, dragged by the invisible undertow. Letters rattled, skittered, leaped, the way leaves leap when a truck rushes by. Pipkin yelped, whipped off his candy-corn horns, and flung them like boomerangs. They struck the air and stuck there with a small, righteous sound, pinning the emptiness for one, two, three beats.

“Run,” Pipkin said, and that was bravery.

We ran, which is to say I ran and Pipkin whizzed. The Hollow surged after us, not fast, just inevitable like a deadline. Up the stairs. Through Biography. Past a display of Edgar Allan Poe that rearranged itself into cheerier authors as we passed, as if embarrassed to be on-brand. The lights flickered. The photocopier burped out a page with one sentence written in sugar dust:

He gave the lantern to the smallest ghost.

We skidded to a stop so abruptly I left part of my shoe sole on the tile.

“That’s the last line,” I said. My breath came out in white questions.

“It’s one of them,” Pipkin whispered. “They’re different every year, but they rhyme. This is the one that rhymes with me.”

The Hollow slid along the ceiling, erasing the buttery light. It made the world feel like the breath you hold when a story turns a corner. The lobby door rattled. Outside, the last trick-or-treaters began to head home, glitter smeared, makeup cracked, all of them full of hours they’d never quite be able to explain. Midnight was walking toward us on thin heels.

We needed a lantern.

“Stay here,” I told Pipkin, and sprinted for the display case near the desk. Every Halloween, the printworks hosts a little museum of oddities: a lead slug that reads HELP ME (typesetters’ joke), a whisper jar corked with black wax, a paper moth with text for wings. And a lantern, iron-framed, old glass rippled like pond water. It’s supposed to be decorative. But stories have a way of checking out anything they need.

I smashed the case with the heel of my hand, wickedly satisfying. The lantern was cold and heavier than it looked. It didn’t have a candle.

“Hold it,” I told Pipkin, shoving it into his paper arms. “I’ll find a light.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t take that kind.”

The Hollow poured down the stairs, erasing the bottom step, then the next. When it reached us, there would be no last lines, no first ones either, just the long middle of being afraid with no moral to carry you through.

“What kind then?”

Pipkin’s voice was just a rustle now. “The kind you make when you choose the ending you want.”

Sometimes the town gives you a sentence, and sometimes it stares at you until you write one.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay.”

I put my hand on the lantern and thought about all the last lines I’ve loved. The brave go out into the dark. The lost is found and finds herself different. The monster curls up by the fire and is not alone. I thought about the way Halloween lets you try on fear like a coat while your real self watches from the mirror and says, You’re doing great.

The glass fogged with our breath. The iron warmed. Pipkin watched me like kids watch fireworks. The Hollow drew near enough that I could hear its not-breathing: a pressure on the eardrums that wanted to flatten them like stamps.

“Here,” I said, and I meant the sentence. “Here is the lantern for the smallest ghost.”

The lantern lit.

Not with fire. With punctuation. Commas like tiny moths fluttered inside, a steady pulse of and then, and then, and then. A single period settled into the base like a coal, full stop, and full comfort. The light was soft as library lamps after hours.

Pipkin swelled. His button eyes shone. His stitched mouth opened wider than a child’s drawing should allow, and rows of harmless, paper-cut teeth unfolded like lace. He didn’t become uglier when he turned monstrous; he became truer. The Hollow reared back, which is a trick for something that is an absence, but fear can make you learn shapes you didn’t know you had.

Pipkin stepped forward, lantern held out. He did not chase. He did not scold. He let the light show the Hollow what it lacked: an ending that chose kindness. The Hollow shuddered, rattled the windows, pulled like a tide with nowhere to go. Then—because even hunger obeys a good story—it broke around Pipkin like dark water breaking around a small rock, and it drained away down the stairs, back into the place inside the world where we keep our almosts.

The library breathed in. The light steadied. In Children’s, the torn pages stitched themselves along the fold with a whisper and the smell of hot sugar. Outside, the last porch light clicked off.

Pipkin’s shoulders drooped in relief. He looked smaller again, and very tired, and very pleased in the quiet way of someone who did the right thing even though he was shaking.

“Keep it,” I said, pushing the lantern back into his arms when he tried to hand it over. “Last lines need a keeper.”

“Just for tonight,” he said. “I only get to keep anything if someone gives it to me.”

“I’m giving it to you.”

He smiled. It was mostly thread, but I’ve never seen anything brighter. “Then I’ll bring it back next year. And the year after. If you leave me a wrapper so I know you finished your candy.”

“I’ll leave two.”

Pipkin floated a little higher. “Greedy.”

“Hungry,” I corrected.

He giggled, a soft rippling sound that sent the atlases flipping through to the future and pausing hopefully. Then he tucked the lantern into his sheet, adjusted his candy-corn horns, and drifted backward into a picture book, where the color deepened like a held breath. His lollipop reappeared in his hand as if it had never been eaten. That’s the nice thing about stories. Snacks reset.

“Good night,” I said.

“Good ending,” he said.

If tonight, when the house is dark and the wrappers crinkle under your pillow because you forgot to throw them away, you hear a tiny knock under your bed and feel a little cooler at your ankles—don’t be afraid. That’s just Pipkin. He’s making sure your last lines found you. Leave him a wrapper. Tell him how your story ends. He’ll listen hard, like it’s his job.

Because on Halloween, the town breathes; and what it breathes out are stories, and what it breathes in are endings, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, it leaves you in the care of a cute monster ghost who is brave enough to stand in front of the Hollow and say, Not tonight.

And the night, being honest, agrees.

Author: Tauraxus
Stake: Tauraxus

Edited October 28, 2025 by Tauraxus