I shifted in my seat with a deep-rooted groan at the sound of yet another knock at the door. It was Halloween night. Another excruciatingly long evening of looking at kid’s costumes and pretending I love their creativity. I never liked Halloween. Maybe it was the awkward social interactions, or the painstaking, high pitched voice of kids saying “Trick or treat!”. Maybe it was the wave of memories that flooded into my brain at the mention of the god-forsaken holiday.
Halloween wasn’t a cheery time in my house. It was full of shrieking and taunting. Only the comfort of my blanket there to support me through the barren night. It wasn’t even a family thing. My parents didn’t care much for Halloween. Not for religious reasons, it just wasn’t a thing we celebrated. Ever. I never knew why.
But I know why I hate it so much now. I know why my heart drops to my gut at the mention of it. I know why my hand was gripping a knife as I opened the door. Just behind my back. I never wanted to hurt children. In fact, it was always a dream of mine to have some of my own. But I couldn’t. I could not bring a child into a world like this. A world where what happened to me occurs. I opened the door to find a little girl. About 4 feet tall. She was standing with a pumpkin shaped basket held out for me to put candy in. Her mother nudged her arm, begging her to say the words.
“Thick or treat!” She said, with a wide smile across her face.
I almost smiled. Almost. Almost smiled so that she could know I had my guard down. But I kept my face straight. Reached for the half empty bowl of candy on the table beside me. My hand reached into the bowl, scooping up a good hand-full. The knife was still behind my back. Still waiting for her to make a sudden move, a move that would end with a knife plunged into her chest. My heartbeat quickened as I dropped the candy into the bucket.
“Thank you! Happy Halloween Ma’am!” She cheerfully walked away, practically skipping to her dad, her mom holding her hand as they moved on to the next house.
I shut my eyes as I closed the door. A sigh of relief dared to escape my lips before I heard it. The laughter. The laughter that had haunted me since I was a child. My heart sank. They were back. My grip on the knife grew stronger as I walked towards the kitchen.
I was only 8 when I first heard it. The laughter. It started with a few lighthearted giggles. Nobody else could hear them. Only me. The laughter grew louder, nearing closer to my bedroom door as I pulled the sheets over my head and shut my eyes, like it would save me from the inevitable. I peered over the edge of my blanket after a couple seconds of silence. What was to come next would forever haunt me. All straight in row, holding hands were children. They almost looked normal. Like normal fucking children. But they weren’t. They were far, far from normal. I don’t know why I ever believed they were my friends. It was Julie, and Danny, and Tyler, and Morgan. Why were they in my house? How did they get in?
The answer was simple. So, so simple. So simple, yet so earth-shattering.
They had gone trick or treating that night. Such an innocent activity, right? 13 people. 13 goddamn people died because of those…things. Police reports later stated that an unknown man had entered the home of those children. Killed them and their entire families. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Any other person would have believed so. Believed because it was reasonable. Because it was more common than the truth. The truth that nobody saw. Nobody. Except for me. Because the night in which the events had happened, lives were taken. But so was mine. My life was robbed from me the second I knew the truth.
I wasn’t told anything. Those little shits didn’t even speak. But I knew. I knew from the way their black eyes glimmered in the moonlight. I knew from the way their smiles stretched beyond human ability. I knew from their bloody hands and faces. I knew from the way they all tilted their heads, synchronized, as if rehearsed. I knew from the way they gripped onto my parent’s heads by their hair. How the blood dripped from their sliced necks to the hardwood floor. I knew they weren’t human. I knew they were killers.
People always called me a survivor. But I was no survivor. I was a victim. It became clear to me that I still am when I heard their laughter again. They had come to finish what they had started. And they wouldn’t stop until they did. I internally debated whether it was worth it. Worth it to live the rest of my life knowing that every Halloween, just like the one before, they would come. And they would taunt me. And they would laugh that fucking laugh. And they would hide, waiting for me to let my guard down. Waiting for me to think it was over so they could kill me.
It just wasn’t worth it.