“God I hate this creepy fucking house” she whispered for the fifth time that day. It had been fun at first, inheriting an abandoned Manor from a long-lost relative. She’d rushed in bright-eyed and keen - frantically cleaning every inch of the place and airing out the awful goddamn stench. She’d managed to describe it once on the phone to her friend back home.

“No, seriously, I’m telling the truth. It’s like a mix of fuckin’, I dunno, rotting meat and like.. Wax?!” She had paced around the garden staring at the storm clouds rolling in, while Stacey had laughed in her ear.

“You’re way over-thinking shit Lily. That place is like 600 years old of course it smells weird. It’s probably mould or something.”

“No it’s n-” She protested before being cut-off.

“Creepy old house. Full of mould. Light some candles and call in the..mould guy.”

Lily planted a hand on her hip and pulled a face.

“A mould guy. Thank you for the expert opinion, Stacey. Also, it’s not that old, Victorians built it.”

She’d thought that Stacey was right - that the dank smell of mould had been causing her to freak out. An entire day had been dedicated to opening all the windows and scrubbing every inch of the place with chemicals.

Satisfied with the cleaning Lily had retired to her bedroom on the second floor. She’d walked up the grand stairs in the entrance, turned down the un-necessarily ornate hallway and eventually found the door to the large room she had chosen.

She’d paused, hand on the door-knob, listening to what sounded like… footsteps? They had been faint and delicate but she’d strewn her clothes on the floor- and could hear the rustling of the different fabrics. Lily had softly turned the doorknob and tried to open the door quietly - but the un-oiled hinges had let out a piercing creak.

A click. A panel of her wall had sealed shut. She was sure of it, that she’d just caught the tail-end of its movement. Lily had grabbed the ornate walking cane she’d found rummaging through the house and stashed on her bureau. Frantically she’d ran her hands over what she thought was a hidden door - feeling for the cracks and seams. She’d found them, but no way to open it and upon the further inspection of the walls found that the entire room was constructed with what felt like panels.

She’d taken a deep breath. Told herself it was the mould, and the chemicals, and the exhaustion. There was no secret door. There had been no footsteps. She went to sleep.

It had hurt him so horribly all those centuries ago. The stench of the oils they had bathed him in had hung in the air as he sobbed, begging for mercy, calling for Thomas and asking him to stop this.

Hush now, hush, the women had whispered tenderly. So lucky to be chosen by Lord Blackcombe for the rites. Wasn’t he enjoying being washed and clothed in such beautiful fabric and gold? Lord Blackcombe’s rings had been piled on to his fingers as he struggled against the chains holding him to the stone altar. They were his rings now. So many centuries to become fond of the gold and jewels adorning him, so many centuries to learn the feel of them despite never being able to see them. But she could see them.

He could hear her, stumbling through the manor as she tried to escape him. She was lost in the twisting hallways and servants quarters. So many doors and so little time. He walked softly on feet that knew every inch of the manor. He had been here so long and she so little. He had crept through the dark and felt along the walls and grown to love this lavish house that had become his prison. His jewellery and his manor and his Thomas. What right had she? The daughter of a daughter of a son of a cousin? The Blackcombe blood was thin in her - he could smell it.

Thump. Smash. The sound of a fist pounding on a door. She was so close now - he was almost there. He would not rush this - would savour it the way Thomas had savoured the rites. He had thought himself so honoured to be the chosen plaything of his Lordship - kept in the latest fashions and taken to the Lord’s bed so often. He’d been willing to overlook the eccentricities, the weird symbols and tomes - the rants about the Goddesses and Gods that no sane man should speak of. So pampered, told how beautiful and precious he was, how he shone like all the jewels of all the Maharajas’.

The intruder had started to babble incessantly as she moved around the Manor from day to day. Mumbling about how there was nothing wrong, there was no one there, it was just the pipes settling and the weather.He had heard her talking to herself, saying that some monstrous thing was probably lurking in the shadows. Chastising herself for thinking these silly things. He watched and he waited. She had thrown open the doors of his Manor and disturbed his home. Moving in all of her things, repairing the shutters and blinds and bringing life back to his tomb. He had moved silently through the servant's passageways and watched her from just out of view. Leave, he had urged without words. Interloper. Unwanted. Leave.

The box of journals she’d found in the library had been..illuminating. If by illuminating she meant horrifying. They’d been the rambling of a madman with too much education and not enough common-sense. Lord Thomas Blackcombe had signed all of them. She read all of them - all of the religious rituals and rites that he’d thought had to be done to honour the Gods that she’d never heard of. Some nonsense about ‘beauty must be sacrificed to the Gods’. Something about candles, and skinning the face, feeding on the eyes of the Beautiful One. He’d scrawled the name Caleb in the margins of many pages.

Lily had packed them back into the box and refused to think about it.

She had found a door in the wardrobe of the master bedroom, and found a lavish bedroom with no other entrance. Beautiful gilded furniture filled the room, and the scent of lavender was somehow still present. Ornate mirrors covered the walls and showed her herself from every angle. She examined the dresser table loaded with jewellery - carefully picking up a few trinkets and admiring them, before placing them in her pocket. She turned around and looked towards a large window overlooking the grounds which lit the whole room.

She had purposely propped the wardrobe door open, making sure she could get out, but when she had turned to leave Lily stopped cold. It was shut.

She closed her eyes tightly and pressed her hands to her face. There was an explanation. There had to be. She opened her eyes, time to toughen up and act like an adult - Lily. Walk over there and open the silly door. The door was locked. Oh god, the door was locked.

Fine. Fine. The way she’d propped the door open hadn’t worked - and the door closing had jostled the lock. There was no way she could kick it down - the door was heavy and solid. But there was still the window, it’s not like she was trapped. The fact that she was on the third floor made things.. Difficult… but not impossible.

Some kind of Rapunzel-prison ladder. She looked around the room, before settling on the canopy over the bed. It had held up to time it seemed - with no moth hole or fraying. Picking up the ends of it it felt like netting and when she tried to rip the fabric it refused. Perfect. With how high the ceiling it was hooked into was she’d easily have enough fabric to get her at least most of the way to the ground.

She scurried over to the window, checking to see if the distance was as bad as she thought - and was distracted by the grounds. From the ground, the gardens seemed unplanned and Hopeless but from here they seemed so planned. There was a large empty patch in the centre of what she saw now was a hedge maze. That’s what she would do, she thought. After I get out of this room. I’ll go down there and start work on the gardens. Plant roses in the middle of the maze. That seemed like a good thing to focus on, she thought, and the not the locked d-

Hinges creaked behind her. Her blood ran cold as she froze on the spot. Suddenly that awful scent was overpowering the lavender smell. Rotting flesh and burning candles. She swallowed the saliva in her mouth and felt the gold jewellery sitting heavily in her pocket. Those soft footsteps behind her were so familiar. She had heard them in her room, while she walked the hallways, while she cleaned the numerous rooms. She’d tried to write them off as sounds of the house settling. She couldn’t ignore them now.

“I’m sorry for coming into your room,” Lily said, trying to sound calm.

When the response came it rattled seemed to scrape its way from their throat; “My house.”

She took in a panicked breath and squeezed her eyes shut. Oh god.

“Yes, your house. I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“My house.” The rattling sank deep into her stomach and caused her to clench her hands. They stepped closer, she could hear it.

“I’ll leave. Please. I’ll leave.”

Thud. Thud. Thud. the footsteps circled her and when the voice came, it came with the scent of decay breathed into her face.

“Too late. My jewellery. My house.”

She frantically pulled the jewellery out of her pocket, hands shaking as she gripped the gold and held it out in front of her.

Lily jolted as she felt hands covering her own, the flesh loose and...too soft. She tried not to breath in the stench, tried to focus on the lavender, and dropped the gold into the waiting hands. The footsteps sounded again as they moved back behind her.

“I’m sorry for what he did. Please let me leave.” she pleaded desperately, chest starting to heave.

The stench grew stronger and she could feel the heat on the back of her head, like candles being held near her.

“My Thomas. Loved me. I was beautiful.” The rattle this time was mournful. This might work, she thought, I might get out of here. He might let me go. Keep talking, Lily.

“I know, I know he did and you were so beautiful. He wrote about you.”

The heat receded. Oh god, it was working. It wa- those dreadful hands were back. The hands were back and they were on her head. She could feel large rings digging into her scalp and her heart beating in her chest, her stomach in her throat.

“Look at me.”

The voice was angry again.

She shook her head, the hands moving with her.

“Look at me.”

She squeezed her eyes tighter.

“Let me go. Please, let me go.” She fluttered her hands at her side.

The hands moved to her shoulders, forcibly turning her around. The stench strong again in her nostrils and the rattle of the voice was loud in her ears.

“Tell me I’m beautiful.”

Lily opened her eyes. She saw the putrid black candles, the exposed jawbones and teeth, the blackened rotting skin covered in beautiful gold and gems.

“You’re…..you’re. Caleb you’re - ”

The hands moved back to her head.

“ - beautiful.”

Snap.

We all hear stories about candies stuffed with razor blades and kids disappearing. Most of the time it's only stories to keep kids in good behavior, and maybe for that we became less careful, so careless that someone... or something like Carmello happened.

The first incident was reported as a isolated event, some parents forbid their kids to go outside, but it's Halloween and kids are fueled by candy. You are escorting your young little boy in his ToT adventures, he's only 8 and actually likes to have your company, and believes everyone is truly scared of his Nightmare Archan costume. Centropolis is a very well-populated region, but the lower side has way too many dark alleys.

You were ready to head home, your son's basket full of candy (and some toothpaste too, you are worried about these because they aren't really edible yet he loves the mint flavor), when he points out to the other side of the street and say "look! I think that man has a pet costume too! but it looks very cheap..." You follow the direction your son is pointing to and spot a young man, very tall, slim and dirty. He has a sheep mask covering his whole face, and he waves to you.

Worried, you tell your kid to go ToT the next house while you keep staring at that horrible figure. Just when you think he's about to walk away, a little girl not older than 12 passes by and you can tell what will happen. The man grabs her by the arm, throwing her to the ground. He kneels on top of her and with one power punch to the face her princess tiara flies across the pavement. The scene happens very quickly, quick enough to feel like a bad dream. What you see can't be described in words - he uses a very rusty butcher's knife to rip open her costume, and before opening up her chest, he really enjoys himself. Not more than 5 minutes passed and what once was a happy child is now a mess of blood, chunks of flesh and torn up rags.

The murder uses his blood-soaked hand to draw a smile on his mouthless mask and makes a gesture for you to keep quiet while pointing the knife in the direction of your son in the distance. He grabs the corpse by one leg and carries it very easily for someone that skinny. You are frozen in time. It's done and it's all gone. Your mouth is dried and you're having a hard time breathing. Then suddenly you feel something warm grab your hand - you jump.

"Sorry, I know I'm too scary!" your son tells you. "Wow, I made you cry? I'm so sorry, please stop!" You can't answer. You pick him up, give him a long warm kiss on the cheek and run back home as fast as possible. It was the last time you left the house during Halloween.

[i] It was an accident - Screams. Melting flesh.… Obscene musculature, shiny and creamed with infection seeping through bandages. …Closed casket funeral; we all knew that there was no body in there. Our employers up top probably put the body in a locked vault. After all, what we were doing broke every Geneva convention and then some.

Rain beats softly against my library window, My pulse, delicate and tense in the stillness. There is always nothing.

Shaking the crystalized nightmare from my throbbing head. I return to my documents; Mr. Chancer wants an update on Project Blue by next month, better get to it.

I find my tenacity in a bottle; it’s usual place. But tonight is unusual; I vomit my resolve into the bathroom basin – The room is humid and concentrates the taste of decay on my tongue, heavy and sinking into the moist of my mouth. The scent. It’s too strong tonight. Heart palpitating in my ears. It stutters, no, it doubles, it echoes in the hallway, it opens the door.

She’s in the fogged mirror; I thumb away a stripe of condensation. Teeth, yellowed and chipped – framed by the wet webbing of rotting cheek, beyond that – Is it a hallucination?

No. The scent has a clear direction for the first time; behind me.

"I heard she did it cause her husband was cheating with the maid."

"You guys are awful!" Valorie glared at her two companions, if only so she wouldn't have to keep looking at the peeling wallpaper and grimy floorboards.

"Lighten up, Val. It's just rumors." Nick rolled his eyes as he fiddled with the night-vision settings on his camcorder. The sun would be setting soon and then they could start rolling. At his side, Casey laughed.

Valorie pouted as they continued down the corridor in silence. The Molven Manor was infamous for its fire in the 1980s. In the middle of the night, a fire started in the manor's large kitchen. It quickly engulfed the whole house in flames and claimed many victims. Only one body was never recovered; Mrs. Molven.

The closer to the kitchen they got, the blacker their surroundings grew. Proof of the fire was still evident even decades after the fact. Valorie felt sick to her stomach as warm breath ghosted her neck. Her eyes darted around, trying to determine which of the two boys were playing the mean trick, but neither were close enough. Another warm breath. Valorie stopped in her tracks as the boys continued into the kitchen.

"Gu-guys?" Her whole body was hot now. "Guys!" She couldn't breathe, there was too much smoke. Valorie coughed, tears wetting her face as the heat grew unbearable. A dark figure crossed her path, heavy smoldering footprints left in its wake. The last thing she saw was Nick rounding the corner as her skin blazed to a crisp.

Badump, badump, badump badump.

His numb twelve-year-old legs could only take him so far up the road before giving way and collapsing beneath him. But was it enough? Was he safe? Knowing he could go no further, Michael fought the urge to look around. What was the point of looking at death when you couldn't run from it anymore? Knees tucked beneath his chin, he slowly rocked back and forth. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

And then she was there. The ghost that had plagued his family for weeks. His mothers, his sister, his dog. They were all gone. And he would never know why it happened, because this was his life. Not some movie where the plot is cleaned up, nice and tidy to explain the reason behind demise. His last thought as the transcendent being waded in ever closer to his prickling flesh was how strangely comforting the cold could feel.