Once a year, on what they call Hallows Night, I do not have to hide. I am at liberty to climb down from my perch and associate with them. To be surrounded by their noise and movement and cheer is exhilarating. It is my favorite night of the year. It is the night when I know for certain I will feast well.

I sit in my tree and I wait. I know their festivities are imminent because I have been watching the houses of the town prepare. Ordinarily unremarkable buildings have adorned themselves with colorful lights and plastic cobwebs. Giant Hallows made of bone have been erected in their yards. Ethereal blobs of white inflate each dusk and waver, illuminated from within. Emptied out pumpkins carved with hollow eyes and crooked grins are set on doorsteps as a sign that freaks are welcome.

As the sun sets, the first of the Hallows appear on the street. These are the smallest of them, I have noticed. They are accompanied by larger Hallows, what I understand to be both their masters and protectors. I am giddy with anticipation, but I know I must wait until it is fully dark. These Hallows are dressed in bright colors and show their faces. I will wait for those with whom I can blend in more discreetly. Eventually, the lights along the rows of homes glow bright, the sun has set, and the street fills with all sorts of vile and creepy freaks. It is time for me to join them.

Forcing myself not to rush, I slink along the branches, between the sprays, being careful not to shake the leaves too much lest I draw attention to my hiding place. Then I slide and slither down the trunk and conceal myself in the shadows. Hesitating to make sure that no-one spied my descent. When I am confident it is safe to do so, I emerge from the shroud and move between the crowd of Hallows, losing myself in the hustle and bustle as though I was there all along. Tonight, I belong. Tonight, I am a Hallow too. And I shall eat of them.

I allow myself to be guided by the flow of bodies around me, submitting myself to their pace and direction. I have no preconceived intent or plan for the evening. I am content to allow events to manifest around me.

I move with a group of Hallows towards one of the houses decorated with pumpkins and bats and lights that move along the façade as if the opposite of shadows. The scent of the Hallows nearest to me fills up my nostrils; the prickly tang of blood and musky sweat remind me that Hallows are not so different from my own kind despite our many differences.

The door of the house opens and an elderly Hallow appears. I can tell she is old because the color has faded from her hair, lines crack her face, and her skin is wearing loose. The Hallows crushing about me thrust forward with excitement as she passes out tokens they call candy. They are eager to receive the tokens but careful to be well mannered. The old Hallow makes a point of taking a moment with each of them to tell them that she likes how they look.

I am shoved forward with the rest and then I am face to face with her. She coos in my face and tells me that she likes my mask. Her ancient breath is a strange mixture of ash and herbs. She hands me one of the candies. I take it and smile in thanks, mimicking my Hallow companions, my lips cracking slightly so that my fangs are exposed before I even realize. Thankfully, none of the Hallows notice and I am jostled away by the crowd once more, swept with them as they move to the next house where a group are sat around a giant bowl of fire. There is more space here, so Hallows flow around me to obtain their tokens. I let them go. There are other things of greater interest.

A small Hallow is standing all alone in the middle of what they call the road. Normally there are giant beasts of metal racing up and down the road. The Hallows ride inside them. But not tonight. On this evening, as it is every year, the Hallows transport themselves by foot so as to better display their freakish attire. This small Hallow is dressed in bright blue furs that would make poor camouflage in the wild, but here it seems no-one has noticed him. No-one but me.

I do not take my eyes off him as I glide forward through the rushing Hallows passing by. It is as though this was meant to be. The sound of my own breathing fills my ears. I am panting low and slow, my eager hunger obvious. My maw is moist. I lick my lips.

And then I am next to him.

The little Hallow looks up at me. His eyes are red and wet. Snot drips from his nose. His knuckles are white where they grip the handle for his bucket of tokens.

“I lost my Mommy,” he sniffs.

I snuffle him. Beneath the masking floral scent that covers his skin, I smell urine, salt, and candies. I turn away and inhale the night. Hallows push past. Ignoring us. I do not detect any that could be his keeper. This is easy prey, but I should not let my guard down.

Turning back to the young Hallow, I discover he is studying me. Looking closer and longer than any Hallow has ever looked at me before.

“I like your costume,” he tells me, his eyes no longer dripping wet. “What are you supposed to be?”

I make an odd noise that experience tells me amuses young Hallows like him. I shake my head and wave my appendages as I do so. He smiles a broad grin. Forgets what question he asked. These are such simple creatures.

“Can you help me find my Mom?”

I shake my head up and down, like I’ve seen the Hallows do to convey agreement. The young Hallow clutches on to me and lets me lead him through the tangle of legs as bigger ones dash and swarm all around us. I feel his fingers digging into my flesh, like little claws that are too weak and blunt to pierce the skin. His aroma is swimming in my snout, and I want so badly to devour him on the spot. But I know I must not. I must be patient.

I lead him away from the tree which I climbed down. It is vital to be discreet. When they find his body there should be no clue about what happened. Nothing that could suggest the existence of my kind. We have always remained hidden, and so it should ever be.

Instead, I lead him down the road to a field behind the row of houses. In the summer the grass in the field is short. Young Hallows such as he will often gather there and play games. One of them involves a disparate circle of bodies; they will take it in turn to hit a ball with a stick then run or try to catch it. In another game they knock a ball to each other with their feet, trying to get it between piles of clothing they have positioned on the ground. So many dusks I have watched them do these things.

Now the field is filled with uncut grass that has been allowed to grow long. The field is dark. The Hallow doesn’t realize that is where I am taking him until we get close. We are almost there when I feel him stop and despite my pulling he does not follow. I survey him and recognize fear in his eyes. He hesitates, then looks back in the direction we’ve come from. At the other Hallows still occupied with their festivities. His gaze returns to me. I see terror on his face. He releases his grip. But he does not back away fast enough.

Quick as a buraq, I lunge at him. Knock him to the ground. Grab him and drag him into the cover of the tall dark grass. He was on the cusp of screaming but his head hit the road and that silenced him. But I am cautious and I haul him deep into the field before I stop. His small frail body is splayed slack across the dirt. Limp and broken and still. There is a trail of scattered candy tokens betraying our path. All my ears prick up but I don’t detect any cause for worry. My heart is thumping and my lungs are billowing in my chest. They must cease so I can be sure that no-one is pursuing me.

No-one is.

I carefully raise my head above the grass and survey the road where all the Hallows are. None have noticed me, nor the young one calling out. Good. It is time. I can eat. My fangs shred the synthetic fur and arrive at the meat within. He is tender and delicious. His blood is nectar. I eat my fill and I am satisfied.

When I am done, I wipe some of his mess from my face but there is no need to worry about it as many Hallows have decorated themselves with similar designs. I pick up his bucket and claim it for my own. I emerge from the grass and my tail discreetly brushes away those candies that fell on the edge of the road, that left alone would doubtless lead the way to his corpse.

I amble through the crowd and head towards my perch. A towering Hallow sways past, looks directly at me, then says something that rings flattering and extends his fist. I tap it with one of my own appendages. He tosses a candy into my stolen bucket.

At the tree, I check that I am not being watched and when I am confident it is safe, I scurry up and take the young Hallow’s bucket with me. I will surely find some use for it.

I lounge in the branches, full and content, and watch as the Hallows below slowly return to their homes. All but a few. Metal beasts with pulsing lights appear. The Hallows within emerge and talk in anxious tones to others that were waiting for them. They are upset. They must be my victim’s guardians. The Hallows go from house to house but those within all shake their heads in turn.

They are still looking for him when the sun comes up, and I curl up in my nest to sleep. I notice them venturing into the field. I hear a scream.

Horror Harwood

Hallows Night