This year, my parents finally let me go trick-or-treating on my own. They said I was too old for them to tag along anymore, and honestly, I didn’t want them to. The night started out perfect: just me, my wizard costume, and my candy bag. Around the sixth house, I noticed him—a kid about my age, trailing behind me. He wore a mask that looked leathery, like dried, sun-bleached skin. It clung loosely to his face, sagging around his cheeks, and the eye holes were dark and hollow, as if the mask itself had swallowed up whatever lay beneath. I figured he might be shy, maybe nervous being out alone, so at the next house, I turned and said, "Hey, wanna trick-or-treat together?" He nodded but didn’t speak. When I saw he didn’t have a candy bag, I offered to share mine. He still said nothing, just smiled faintly beneath that rotting mask. His wide, glassy eyes were barely visible through the deep, shadowed sockets, but I could feel them—locked on mine, unblinking and too still. As we knocked on the door of the last house on the block, I finally asked him, "Do you live around here?" But before he could respond, the old woman at the door spoke first. "Trick or treat!" I blurted out, but she ignored my greeting. She looked around, her eyes scanning the empty street, then down at my new friend with concern. "Sweetie," she asked him softly, "why are you out here all alone?"

Eventually, he did nod yes to marrying me. Replacing a few more strings shouldn’t cost too much.

It wasn’t the corn gone missing drove me mad, but the whining of our newborn. My wife cries now sure, but there ain’t no more crows in the field.

I’ve been so hungry since Mommy left. Her funeral was closed casket—there just wasn’t enough of her to say goodbye to.

It started shortly after my brother died. My dog, normally energetic and oblivious, began to stare at me for hours on end. He didn’t blink and hiss eyes were wide with something I couldn’t place. At first, I thought it was grief; we had both lost him, after all. But as the weeks dragged on, the staring continued, every night, always from the same spot at the foot of my bed. I tried everything to snap him out of it, calling his name, offering him treats, even trying to scare him off but nothing broke him. Months passed, and the staring grew unbearable. “What’s wrong with you!” I screamed one night, my frustration taking hold as those familiar eyes bore into mine. That’s when it hit me. He wasn’t staring at me; his eyes were fixed just past my shoulder.

My husband won’t stop with the bruises. They never seem to fade, each one darker than the last. Every evening I go to him and I plead to him, I beg for him to stop. But when I leave his grave and go to sleep… I wake up in the morning and my bruises are even darker. As if somehow by putting him there, I’ve made it worse than before.