The engine sputtered and died, leaving me stranded on the loneliest stretch of I-80. I was heading to Cali, chasing the same dream so many had before me. “Gonna make it big,” I’d told my folks before I left, but like always, they just laughed at me. The salt flats stretched endlessly around me, and under the full moon, it looked like a frozen ocean. I stepped out of the car, cursing my luck as the salt under my boot crunched. Smoke billowed from the hood, curling into the night, and that’s when I saw it—just beyond the haze. Maybe someone had stopped to help? I checked my phone, no bars. "Hey!" I called, forcing a smile. "Any chance you’ve got service?" The figure didn’t move, didn’t answer. It just stood there, swaying slightly from left to right, like a pendulum. My chest tightened, but I stepped toward it, the beam of my phone’s flashlight trembling in my hand. The air grew heavier, and the salt beneath my feet seemed to shift, alive with anticipation. Then I heard it: a wet, dragging sound, followed by gurgling, like something savoring the moment. My heart pounded as I turned to get back to my car. But it was already behind me. An old man with wisps of hair barely clinging to his scalp. Its body crusted with salt that glittered like shards of glass embedded in rotting muscle. The salt preserved what was left, but patches of decay clung to its body, the flesh peeling away like wet paper. Its wings—if you could call them that—were enormous, grotesque hands sprouting from its back. The fingers dragged on the ground, the nails scraping deep grooves in the salt, twitching and curling as though they had a will of their own. Its face had no eyes, just sunken pits burned shut like withered raisins. Yet, I felt its gaze—a suffocating weight that rooted me to the spot. It convulsed as it spoke, its words rasping out like a grandfather that knows his time is coming soon, “You... shouldn’t... be here.” The wings snapped open with a sickening crack, the fingers curling and flexing like claws. Before I could scream, they wrapped around me, their leathery touch searing my skin as the salt bit into my flesh. It cradled me like a child and flew into the night, the air rushing past as I struggled uselessly. I tried to scream, but it only patted my head and hummed. When we landed, it dragged me across the dunes, my body limp, the salt scraping against me with every pull. The mouth of its lair yawned before us—a black cavern, jagged and glistening, like the throat of a beast that had just swallowed something whole. With no hesitation, it snapped my legs. The sound of bone breaking and tearing through my skin rang through the cavern as it tossed me aside like garbage. I screamed for help, but the only answer was the creature rummaging through its collection—a pile of broken toys, tarnished trinkets, and other mementos from those it had taken before. It brought over a slinky and played with it in front of me, watching intently, waiting. I know now, I should have played along. There are others here too, tied and pinned to the walls, their bodies crusted in the salt. It doesn't like it too much when we try to talk but it feeds us, keeps us alive, even strokes our heads as if it cares. But still, after all this time it doesn't quite feel like home. He doesn’t laugh at me though, so that’s something.

I could barely see past the fog of my own breath. The wind howled through the snowy peaks as I trudged through the drifts. The villagers below had warned me of "the Hollowback," but I laughed it off—until I saw the enormous footprints, impossibly deep, with no beginning or end in the snow. My lantern flickered as the mountain fell silent, and then I saw it: a hulking figure crouched low, its spine arched grotesquely upward, hollowed out like a frozen cave. Its head turned slowly, revealing empty sockets that dripped black, frozen tears, and its mouth split wide in a silent scream. As it moved closer, I realized the hollow in its back wasn’t empty—it was filled with the half digested, frozen bodies of others who had ignored the warnings. My last thought, before it reached for me, was that no one would ever find my footprints in the snow.

I sit in my rocking chair, gripping my wrist to steady the tremor, willing myself to hold on to something, anything, that will keep me grounded. The little girl beside me looks up, her eyes are so full of a love that I know she has misplaced, and her voice is so soft as she calls me “Grandma,” a name I’ve never known. I know that I'm told I'm supposed to want to know her. But I just don't. The nurse tells me they come and visit me often, but I know that nurse has lied to me before. She tells me I know them, but I can’t trust her, she won’t listen to me when I tell her that I don't know who they are. The woman beside the child, maybe her mother, smiles gently, hiding her tears, “It’s so good to see you, Ms. Grace," she says. I fake my smile and turn my head to see a woman I don’t know stare at me through the mirror. She calls me Ms. Grace, but I don’t know that name either. I can feel the love in her eyes, I can feel the pain hiding there too, and it breaks my heart to know that I am nothing more than an intruder on a life that I will never get back to. When the nurse wheels me back to my room, I feel a hollow ache settle deep within my stomach. I am full of guilt and shame and I cry myself to sleep, fearing that I will wake up tomorrow. As I move to blow out the candle I glance down at my wrist, the faint lines of scars catching my eye, and my heart stumbles; carved deep into my own skin, the words stare back at me: “They aren’t who they say they are.”

The streets of the neighborhood were dark, save for the soft, flickering glow of jack-o'-lanterns lining the porches. On her back deck, the woman sat sipping her coffee. She admired her three pumpkins, their carved faces grinning in the candlelight, while she casually flipped through a worn paperback. She barely registered the blue and red lights flashing against her front windows, and soon a firm knock echoed through the house. Opening the door, two police officers stood on her porch, the taller one pulling out a photo of three children, their young faces hauntingly familiar. "Have you seen these kids, ma'am?" he asked. She studied the photograph for a moment, furrowing her brow before shaking her head. "No, I’m sorry, I can’t say that I have." The officers thanked her and politely asked her to call if she heard anything. Turning to leave, she stopped them, reaching for a bowl of candy. "It’s Halloween," she said sweetly, extending the bowl. "I made them myself. Added a bit of crunch to them this time." They smiled, each taking a piece of chocolate before walking back to their patrol car. She shut the door softly behind her and settled back into her chair. The pumpkins flickered warmly, and she leaned in close to them, "Well aren't you popular" she whispered tenderly.

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.