Don't Answer the Door on Halloween

PROLOGUE

Halloween Eve.

A clown shows up at my door demanding candy.

I have zero tolerance for the obnoxious prank culture flooding the internet.

I figured he was just another clout-chasing asshole, so I grabbed the baseball bat I keep by the door and chased him off my property.

But later, when I was scrolling through TikTok in bed, a photo suddenly popped up in the Willow Creek community Facebook group.

A clown with a knife, climbing through the window of Unit 101.

A cold dread, sharp and sudden, pierced through me.

Because 101&

is my apartment.

01

The knock on the door was three loud, insistent thuds.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

My hand hesitated over the doorknob, a strange reluctance coiling in my gut.

Taking a breath, I finally twisted the cold brass and pulled the door inward.

A clown with a red, bulbous nose and a grin stretched wide enough to show eight perfectly white teeth stood on my welcome mat.

"Trick or treat."

His voice was a flat, toneless drone that didn't match the painted smile at all.

I instinctively took a step back, my heart giving a nervous little flutter.

The clown mirrored my movement, taking a small, deliberate step forward. The manic grin never faltered.

"Trick or treat."

I tightened my grip on the door, ready to slam it shut.

"We don't really do Halloween here," I said, my voice tighter than I intended.

I tried to close the door, but the clown moved again, faster this time.

One oversized, cartoonish shoe wedged itself in the gap, blocking the door from closing.

He was so close now.

So close I could smell the pungent, chemical odor of the cheap white greasepaint smeared on his face.

The smile remained a static, painted slash across his face, but his eyes dark and empty were locked onto mine.

"Trick or treat."

The repetition was starting to feel less like a holiday greeting and more like a threat.

Just then, I heard the faint sound of my neighbors talking as they walked down the hallway.

The normal, everyday sound calmed the frantic beating in my chest.

What was I so worried about? There were people everywhere in the complex. What could he possibly do?

I straightened up, taking a moment to really look at him.

His face, the top of his head, his neck all covered in that stark, chalky-white paint. The nose was a blood-red foam ball. It was impossible to tell what he really looked like under all that junk.

The security at Willow Creek Condominiums isn't the best. We get all sorts of people wandering through, sometimes even homeless folks looking for a handout.

But this was new. A beggar who knew about Halloween, using the holiday as a cover to ask for money.

And that s what really set me off.

I can t stand those obnoxious prank videos online, the ones where idiots in masks terrorize people for clicks. He looked like he d stepped right out of one of those stupid, viral clips.

And he had the nerve to try his act on me?

A surge of anger, hot and sharp, replaced my fear.

I spun around, grabbed the aluminum baseball bat I keep propped against the wall by the door, and swung it hard against the doorframe, right next to his head.

The crack of metal on wood was deafening in the quiet hallway.

But the strange thing was, the clown didn't even flinch.

He didn't try to defend himself, didn't move an inch. He just kept staring at me with that fixed, painted grin.

Something was deeply wrong.

My aggressive posture faltered. I lowered the bat, a new wave of unease washing over me.

Suddenly, the smile vanished.

His face went completely blank. He pulled his foot back, turned around without a word, and walked away.

I didn't think much of it after that.

Until later that night.

Until I was up late, mindlessly scrolling through TikTok, and the community Facebook group started blowing up my phone.

02

I glanced at the time on my phone.

1:30 AM.

I never mute the residents' group chat. The condo board is always doing renovations, and it s the only way to get a heads-up before they shut off the water or the power.

But it was the middle of the night. The management office was closed. There was no way they'd be announcing a power outage now.

It was probably just another bored neighbor posting nonsense.

So I ignored it and went back to the video I was watching.

Five minutes later, a friend request popped up on my phone.

This time, I opened the notification. The message attached to the request made my heart skip a beat.

[THE CLOWN IS IN YOUR APARTMENT. HIDE. NOW.]

The name on the profile read Jude Dawson, Unit 501.

A jolt of fear shot through me, but I quickly pushed it down. It was Halloween. This had to be a prank, a sick joke.

I accepted the request, my fingers already typing out an angry message. But before I could hit send, he sent me a photo.

[Did you see the picture I posted in the group chat five minutes ago?]

The moment I saw the image, I shot up in bed, my blood turning to ice.

The photo showed a clown, a knife clutched in its hand, standing right in front of my half-open kitchen window.

My kitchen window.

My home.

My eyes darted around my dark room. The photo looked sickeningly familiar. It wasn't just my window; it was my unit. Unit 101.

Panic seized me. I threw off the covers, my mind racing. I had to get downstairs, lock that window, call the police

Another message came through.

Another photo.

This one showed the same window. But the clown was gone.

And the window, which had only been cracked open before, was now wide open.

A cold, paralyzing fear rooted me to the spot. My feet felt like they were encased in cement.

I couldn t move.

And then I remembered.

Ten minutes ago, I had told my mom I was hungry.

She was downstairs.

In the kitchen.

03

My hand closed around the cold steel of the paring knife I kept on my nightstand.

With a guttural scream I didn't recognize as my own, I threw open my bedroom door and charged down the stairs.

The living room was dark, the only illumination a weak, pale glow spilling from the kitchen doorway.

I swallowed hard, the saliva thick in my throat. My knuckles were white as I gripped the knife, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

I burst into the kitchen.

A blast of cold night air hit me, sending a shiver down my spine.

The window was wide open, just like in the photo, one of the thin white curtains fluttering wildly in the breeze.

My eyes scanned the room, desperate, searching.

No sign of my mom.

But the smell of her cooking the rich, comforting aroma of tomato soup still hung heavy in the air.

Wait.

She was down here making me a late-night snack. Tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.

I scanned the entire kitchen again.

On the stove, a pot of soup was still simmering, steam rising in gentle wisps.

But the sandwich was gone.

And so was my mom.

Then I heard it.

A strange, rhythmic sound.

Drip... drip... drip...

It was coming from the refrigerator. The heavy French door wasn't quite closed; it was open just a crack.

I hadn't even noticed it before.

My grip on the paring knife tightened until my knuckles ached. I took a slow, deliberate step closer.

With every step, a strange new smell mixed with the comforting aroma of the soup.

A coppery, metallic scent that grew stronger and stronger.

The foul odor made me want to gag. I held my breath, reached out a trembling hand, and yanked the refrigerator door open.

The sight that greeted me tore a raw, piercing scream from my lungs.

Crammed inside the spacious refrigerator, her body bent at an unnatural angle, was a woman.

Blood dripped slowly from a deep gash on her forehead, falling one drop at a time into a bowl of steaming tomato soup clutched in her lap.

That woman&

was my mom.

04

My hands were shaking so violently I could barely hold the knife.

I reached a trembling finger toward her neck, desperately searching for a pulse.

There.

Faint, but it was there. A weak, thready beat against my fingertip.

She was alive.

I had to get her out.

I jammed the knife into my back pocket and tried to pull her from the fridge, but her body was wedged tight.

As I struggled, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

Two new messages.

It was Jude, from 501.

[I've already called 911 for you. The property manager's line is busy. I'm coming down right now.]

[You need to hide. I just saw a shadow move from the living room towards the kitchen.]

My blood ran cold.

I immediately abandoned my efforts to free my mom and scrambled for cover, pressing myself into the dark space behind the kitchen door.

I held my breath, listening.

Sure enough, a faint, shuffling footstep echoed from just outside the doorway.

He was here.

Right now, my anger was stronger than my fear. All I wanted was to make him pay for what he did to my mom.

I pulled the paring knife from my pocket, my hand surprisingly steady.

Slowly, silently, I peeked out from behind the door.

A tall, shadowy figure stood with its back to me, its attention focused on the open refrigerator.

I raised the knife.

On silent feet, I crept up behind him.

With a surge of adrenaline, I lunged forward.

All my terror, all my rage, focused into the point of that cheap blade. I plunged it deep into the clown's shoulder.

A strangled, inhuman cry of pain ripped through the kitchen's silence.

I yanked the bloody knife free.

Not waiting to see what would happen next, I turned and sprinted out of the kitchen, back up the stairs, and into my room, slamming the door shut and locking it behind me.

My entire body was trembling, hot tears streaming down my face.

I was safe, for now.

But my mom... my mom was still down there, in the fridge.

With him.

I grabbed the doorknob, ready to charge back down and finish what I started.

But I stopped, my hand frozen on the lock.

He was bigger than me, stronger than me. I had the element of surprise once, but not again.

Going down there now would be suicide.

I was trapped, pacing my room like a caged animal, when I heard another sound from downstairs.

A loud crash.

I froze, pressing my ear against the door, straining to hear.

But after that one sharp noise, there was only silence.

A deep, unnerving silence that felt heavier and more threatening than any sound.

I waited for what felt like an eternity. Five minutes passed. Ten.

Nothing.

It was as if everything had just been a figment of my imagination.

But the crash was real. I knew it.

By now, Jude should have been here.

A terrible thought wormed its way into my mind.

I fumbled for my phone, my fingers slick with sweat, and sent him a message.

[Where are you?]

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding, waiting for a reply.

One minute.

Three minutes.

Five minutes.

Silence.

Oh god.

What if he got to Jude, too?

I looked at the clock. It was almost 2:00 AM.

It had been half an hour since Jude said he called the police.

Where were they?

As I was about to dial 911 myself, my phone lit up with a new message.

I looked down.

It was Jude.

05

[The clown's gone. Where are you?]

I stared at the message, completely bewildered.

Gone? How could he be gone?

And what was that crash I heard?

Maybe he sensed my disbelief, because another message came through a second later.

[I'm so sorry, I was so freaked out I accidentally knocked over a vase when I came in. I think the noise scared him off.]

I read the message, my mind racing, a sliver of doubt lodging itself in my thoughts.

I had ambushed him from behind.

The paring knife wasn't that sharp, and in my panic, I couldn't have used much force.

At best, it was a minor wound.

Could a killer really be that much of a coward? Scared off by a single stab wound and the sound of a shattering vase?

It seemed possible, but something about it felt wrong.

My thoughts were a tangled mess.

Another message popped up.

[He might come back. You need to get out of there. Come to my place. Where are you?]

[Come on, where are you? Let's go.]

I stared at those two messages, a war raging in my mind.

I couldn't move. I didn't dare.

How could I be sure it was really Jude texting me? What if it was the clown, using his phone?

After a long, agonizing moment, I typed out a reply.

[I'm too scared. Can you send me a video of the living room so I know it's safe?]

There was no immediate reply.

A minute later, my phone buzzed with an incoming video call.

I answered it instantly.

The camera was shaky, panning slowly across the dark, silent living room.

It was completely empty. Not a soul in sight.

A wave of relief washed over me.

Maybe Jude was telling the truth. Maybe the clown really was gone.

But just as I was about to end the call, as the video feed froze for a split second before disconnecting, my eyes caught something in the corner of the frame.

A pair of oversized, floppy clown shoes.

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