HUNTERS - A Halloween Treat

 

Photo by Samantha Gades on Unsplash

 

 

HUNTERS

 

Hurry! We’ll get caught!” Stacie hissed.

“How do you know they’re behind us?” Gideon whined.

“I can sense them,” she snapped.

He slumped onto a boulder. “Is this a Halloween joke? Beautiful aliens that eat brains like candy? No way.”

Stacie’s body tingled. Danger was close. “Fine. Sit there if you want. I’m outta here!”

Gideon struggled to keep up. “Okay, I’m coming—but if you’re lying—”

“You’ll what? Bitch!” she snapped. Handsome, muscular, soft as cotton, and narcissistic—he was no partner in peril.

“Witch,” he muttered.

“Run!” Stacie bolted.

Her lungs burned; he lagged behind. Smoking and out of shape, he waved her on. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Stacie ducked behind a bush, watching. Two women, impossibly gorgeous, glided toward Gideon.

“Are you all right?” they echoed in perfect unison.

He slumped against a fallen tree. “Winded,” he muttered.

The blond stroked his hair. “Sit. Water?”

“Yes, thanks,” he said, gulping.

“Out here alone?” the redhead asked, voice soft, but there was menace underneath.

“Came on a dare. Haunted woods, Halloween,” he replied. “My partner got scared.”

“Perfume?” They sniffed the air.

“Yeah, too flowery. Yours…different,” he said, flirting.

Stacie’s stomach churned. Should she intervene? Wait? Sneak away?

Then Gideon’s body went slack. Those beautiful model's had poisoned him. They held his head between them, guiding it forward.

Their mouths opened impossibly wide. Thin, long tongues slithered into his ears. Wet, slurping noises filled the clearing. Stacie gagged.

Horrified, she watched as they drew his brains out, consuming him with unnatural grace. His confusion, terror, and faint pleasure vanished with the final pull.

Stacie’s heart pounded. Beauty was the lure. Perfection was a weapon. Out here, in the haunted woods, it didn’t matter that they were gorgeous. They were monsters, and the cost of curiosity—or of weakness—was death.

The redhead’s eyes flicked toward the shadows where Stacie hid. Her mouth curled in a knowing smile. Stacie’s breath caught. Escape was not guaranteed. Not tonight. Not ever.

The forest was alive with predators who didn’t need to hide. Only someone fast, clever, and cold-hearted could survive. And Stacie knew she’d need every ounce of her strength to make it through this night.

Gideon was gone. Beauty had sucked him dry, body and mind. And now, the hunt had truly begun.

© Yolanda Renée 2025

383 Words

 Formerly published on January 28, 2015, as Beautiful Suck’s, rewritten this year for Halloween.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Photo by Jon Butterworth on Unsplash

THE BEASTS BENEATH - A Halloween Treat

 

Photo by Jonas Jaeken on Unsplash

 

THE BEASTS BENEATH

Lavender and bubbles lapped at her skin as Allison sank deeper into the tub. For the first time in weeks, she felt almost safe. Then—

“Allison.”

Her mother’s lilting voice slipped into her thoughts like a ghost, dragging her seventeen years into the past.

~~*~~

“Allison.”

The sound floated through her room, soft as an angel’s caress.
“Allie, I need you.”

She hurried to the kitchen.

“Hey, sweetie pie, I’d love your help with dinner.” Her mother’s smile was warm.
“Sure, Mom. What can I do?”
“Go downstairs for a jar of green beans and pickled beets. We’re celebrating Halloween with your dad’s favorites. Hurry, he’ll be home soon. Then we’ll all go trick-or-treating.”

Allison froze. The basement. That swamp of shadows and ghouls. Not tonight. But her mother’s knife kept chopping potatoes, steady, expectant.

Hand trembling, she twisted the knob. The door creaked. A breath of rot curled into her nose.

Eyes glowed in the dark—red, unblinking. For an instant, she thought she saw more than one pair, shifting, watching, before they sank back into the shadows.

Something waited at the bottom of the steps. Horns. Teeth. Sores that oozed poison.

“Allison…” it rasped.

Her scream split the house. She slammed the door and fled, cowering behind the recliner until her mother’s arms found her.

“Honey, there’s no such thing as monsters. Daddy fixed the light. No more shadows.” Her mother kissed her hair. “We’ll go together. I’ll prove it.”

Allie shook her head, sobbing. “I saw his eyes. He called my name.”

“It’s your imagination. I’ll prove it.”

She planted her feet, but her mother marched to the basement door. “This is the last time, Allie.” The light clicked on. “Wait till your father gets home. I wanted to tell him how you helped with dinner, how grown-up you are. Now what will I say?”

Her voice was strong, reassuring, even while scolding. Step by step, she disappeared down the stairs. Jars clinked.

Allison wiped her tears—Mom’s right. I’m eight—time to grow up.

Footsteps returned. Relief bloomed—until her mother’s face froze.

Terror. A silent scream in her eyes.

Claws burst from the shadows, locking around her ankles—then another set raked up her legs. She shrieked as jars shattered, crimson brine splattering across the floor. Her body slammed into the concrete below.

But it was the beasts’ howl—that carved itself forever into Allison’s nightmares.

~~*~~

“Allison!”

Her husband’s voice dragged her back to the present.

They’d moved into her childhood home two months ago—an inheritance she’d begged to sell. Tom had insisted they stay.

“Where are my tools?” The back door slammed. Muddy boots stomped. “How many times do I have to tell you not to touch my stuff?”

He stormed into the bathroom, where the broken lock dangled uselessly.

She pulled her knees tighter. “I moved them to the basement, like we agreed.”

He yanked the plug from the drain. “Where’s dinner?” His eyes swept the room. “Beauty queen, huh? You’re just an old hag now.” He swept her toiletries from the counter; glass shattered against tile.

Her voice cracked. “I—I had the workshop built for your birthday. The contractor finished today. All your tools are organized.” She wrapped herself in a towel. “Happy early birthday.”

Tom paused, suspicion narrowing his eyes. Then he laughed. “I’ll be damned.”

His greasy hand twisted in her hair. She winced as his kiss broke skin, drawing blood. His voice dropped to a growl. “Don’t bother getting dressed. I’ll be right back.”

She waited until he left, footsteps fading, before rinsing the filth of his touch from her skin.

But screams tore through the floorboards.

Allison froze, heart hammering. For a moment, she was eight years old again, staring into glowing eyes. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her face. She rinsed the last of his touch from her skin, wrapped herself in her robe, and reached for the phone. “Call the police, then the real estate agent,” she whispered, dialing 9-1-1 as she walked downstairs.

The creak of footsteps stopped her cold.

Tom staggered into the kitchen, drenched in blood. His grin was wide, feral. In one hand, he clutched the severed head of a horned beast, its eyes still glowing faintly as if death hadn’t claimed them.

“That new hatchet sure came in handy.” He laughed, breath ragged.

Then the laugh curdled into a snarl. He raised the ax again, stepping closer. “Your turn, bitch!”

From the open basement door behind him, red eyes blinked in the dark.

Allison’s lips curved into a thin, knowing smile. “Behind you.”

The floor trembled. Clawed hands shot out, wrapping around Tom’s ankles. His scream ripped through the house as he was yanked backward, the severed head and ax still in his hands. The basement door slammed shut, his cries muffled by the beast's roar rising from below.

Allison stood in silence, the receiver still in her hand, and whispered to the empty kitchen:

“Told you there were monsters.”

©  Yolanda Renée  2025

833 Words

Published initially as The Workshop for the WEP on October 20, 2015, and rewritten for this Halloween celebration.

 

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

 

Photo by Kenny Eliason on Unsplash 

OBSESSION - A Halloween Treat

 

Photo by Cam Stockdale on Unsplash

 

OBSESSION

Hagn leaned back in her chair, weak but alive. Flames licked the hearth, yet their warmth only made her skin prickle with icy dread. Pneumonia had nearly claimed her life, but the Ice Compound still held her hostage, its nightmare far from over. She shivered—not from illness, but from the nagging fear she would never escape.

A faint sound made her pause. Not the crackle of the fire. Not the wind outside. She didn’t need to look. Yadon was in the room. She could feel his eyes—cold, merciless, absolute. Her pulse surged. She prayed for deliverance.

“Feeling better?” His voice was casual, bored, but it cut deeper than any knife.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She stared into the fire, pretending calm, though every muscle screamed at her to run. Waves of ice radiated from the flames, brittle and sharp, freezing her insides.

“You’ll never convince him I was behind this,” Yadon said softly, as if lecturing a child. “Keep trying, and he dies.”

“I’ve done nothing but tell him the truth,” she said, trembling. “I’m not marrying him and certainly not marrying you. Touch him, and I’ll kill myself. You won’t have me. No one wins.”

“You’re wrong,” he replied, smiling. “I always win. I will have you—even dead. Dr. Jhengi has ways to make even the dead walk. Would you like proof?”

Hagn’s stomach churned. She refused to look. But fear—pure, naked fear—raced through her veins, freezing her blood.

“Don’t test me.” Yadon advanced, each step deliberate, each shadow stretching toward her. “You’ll be mine. Look at me.”

Her knees shook. She clutched the chair, desperate to keep it between them. She obeyed. And what she saw stole her breath.

The man she had known as Goren—the one she’d watched fed to wild dogs—stood before her. His body was barely recognizable as human. Skin blackened, blue, and green, hanging in shreds. Bones protruded at grotesque angles. His flesh was torn and jagged, muscle dangling in tatters. Death clung to him like a fog, yet his bright blue eyes, rimmed in red, held hers.

He swayed unnaturally, suspended by chains held by two hulking men. His mouth missing, throat mangled, his gaze pleaded with her, alive and aware despite the carnage his body had endured.

Yadon’s words stabbed her: “I will have you—even dead.”

Hagn’s stomach lurched. Horror, revulsion, despair collided in her chest. Did he feel pain? Did his soul remain intact in that monstrous shell? The room reeked of rot and decay, and the fire’s warmth mocked her helplessness.

Dr. Jhengi’s a genius, Yadon’s laugh echoed through the chamber.

Hagn screamed, a sound that clawed at her throat, a scream that promised she would never stop. She cried until the firelight blurred with tears and terror.

In that moment, she understood the truth: there was no escape from this frozen castle of horror.

 Photo of zombie by Gerardo Martin Fernandez Vallejo on Unsplash

© Yolanda Renée 2025

485 Words

 Initially published on January 28, 2015, as Frozen Heart, rewritten for this year’s Halloween Celebration.

Photo by Łukasz Nieścioruk on Unsplash

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

REVISITED - A Halloween Treat

 

Photo by Michael Hamments on Unsplash

 

REVISITED

The fog is rising again, thick and alive. Its tendrils coil around the world like a living thing. And I know—I am its prey.

Last Halloween, my car stalled a mile from home. Gas full, battery new—nothing should have stopped it. But no matter what I did, it refused to start. The fog rolled in fast, thicker than smoke, waves moving as though pushed by unseen hands. No wind, no explanation, just malevolence.

I grabbed my bag and ran. My heel snapped on the cracked pavement, but I didn’t stop. Barefoot, I sprinted, superstition and terror driving me forward. Then—fingers like iron wrapped around me from behind. A blade slashed my cheek. I kicked backward, stumbling free, my key trembling in my hand.

I reached the door, slammed it shut, heart hammering, and locked it thrice. The clock struck midnight. Bloodied, shaking, I survived. The fog had vanished, retreating as if sated for the moment.

Now, a year later, Halloween returns. I’ve seen the movies, I know the stories, but this is no story. It’s real, but no one will believe me.

The air chills. Fog creeps across the lawn, curling under my windows and clinging to the eaves. Every shadow seems alive. I check the locks, close the curtains, and move the dining room chairs against the patio door. Pacing—my pulse drums in my ears. Midnight approaches.

The fog presses closer. I can feel it moving under doors, slipping past barriers, hungry. Death waits in that haze, patient.

I retreat to the bathroom and block every possible crack between me and the outside with wet towels. I dial 911, but no one answers. So, fully dressed, I turn on the cold water—icy torrents running over my skin. Surely, cold will repel it, wash away the terror, render me safe. I count the chimes, five… four… three… two…

There is a scratching at the bathroom door and a whisper in the wind. My breath freezes in my throat. The fog is inside the house, and the air smells of rot and earth. My heart refuses to obey as the doorbell rings. Who’s at the door? Run, I want to scream, but can’t. Still, the scratching stops and the whispers disappear, but horrific screams fill the air. I cover my ears.

Finally, silence, but I dare not move.

Morning comes. Sunlight shines weakly through the foggy veil outside. Relief surges—until the next knock at the door. But I cannot move. I am frozen in fear. The bathroom door is forced open. Someone puts a blanket around my shoulders.

Detectives and officers stand there, their faces grave. One shakes his head. “That psycho slasher has struck again,” he says, voice hollow.

I nod. “He came back for me, but someone rang the doorbell…”

I follow them downstairs. Blood stains the floor and the walls, and a trail of bloody drag marks leads through the French doors to my backyard. I clutch the edge of a chair. My hands shake uncontrollably as I clutch for the cup of tea a matron has prepared. Then I see the sheet they’ve placed over the bodies.

The fog may have receded, but its intent is clear. It waits, watching, calculating. For two years now, I’ve survived Halloween night. This year, it claimed two strangers stranded by car trouble. And it will not rest until I, too, am a victim.

Even locked doors cannot keep it out. Even cold showers cannot repel it. It is patient. It is eternal. And Halloween will forever mark the nights I run from something I can feel but cannot see.

© Yolanda Renée 2025

605 Words

Formerly published on October 23, 2023, as The Fog, and rewritten for this year’s Halloween post.

Photo by Олег Мороз on Unsplash

 

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

SACRIFICE - A Halloween Treat

 

Photo by Brandon Griggs on Unsplash

SACRIFICE

“There it is.” Jimmy pointed toward the stone building—a massive, weathered mausoleum with barred windows and a heavy wooden door crowned by a cross. Angels crouched at the steps, but it was the gargoyles glaring down from the roof that made me shiver.

We stopped several yards away.

“Let’s set up here.” Jimmy adjusted his tripod and camera. He took the wand from me and handed me a humming device, its lights blinking like a pulse.

“Turn in a slow circle,” he said. “Stop when you’re facing the mausoleum. This will pick up any activity.”

“This is ghost hunting?” I tried to laugh, but the sound caught in my throat.

“Nothing scary. Almost boring.” He flashed me his killer smile.

I obeyed. The device thrummed louder, and the vibration climbed up my arm. Then I saw them—shapes—dozens of them. Pale faces emerged from the dark, circling, watching us, laughing until they realized I could see them.

“Jimmy,” I whispered, “they’re coming toward us.”

“Who?”

“Them.” My finger trembled as I pointed. He followed my gaze but saw nothing.

“You can see ghosts?” he asked, snapping photos frantically, his light flashing across empty air.

“They’re closing in—except the mausoleum. It’s clear.”

Jimmy grabbed his equipment and bolted for the crypt. “Come on!”

He shoved the door open easily—too easily. It swung wide without a groan, as though it had been used recently. We stumbled inside. I was crying and terrified, but he wrapped me in his arms, kissed me, and calmed me.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he murmured.

The room smelled faintly of roses, wax, and dust overlaying something older—death. Yet it was spotless, gleaming marble, polished floors, fresh roses in vases. An angel statue loomed, and in the center, a stone sarcophagus with a robed effigy carved atop it. I saw no ghosts and felt a fleeting relief.

Until a voice came from the shadows.

“I wouldn’t recommend leaving.”

I nearly screamed. Jimmy spun, putting himself between me and the sound.

A man stepped into view. Red eyes, crooked grin, his face twisted into something that reminded me of a jack-o’-lantern. “I’m the caretaker. Dug three graves today. I spend Halloween nights here, keeping pranksters away. But you? You saw them.”

I nodded.

“They don’t like being seen,” he said, lighting a cigarette. Smoke curled around his grin. “The last ones who did? Missing.”

Jimmy drew me deeper into the room. The caretaker handed us a blanket. “Stay till daylight. They won’t enter here. This is holy ground.”

I wanted to run, but Jimmy pressed close, soothing me, offering wine. I pretended to sip, dumping mine in a vase when he wasn’t looking. Soon, exhaustion dragged me under.

When I woke, hushed voices drifted through the dark: Jimmy and the caretaker.

“She’s out,” Jimmy said. “Should be till midnight.”

“You’re sure she’s a virgin?” the caretaker asked.

“Positive. It was hard to keep my distance. She’s special.”

Ice filled my veins.

“Good,” the caretaker said. “We’ll prepare the room. Then we’ll dress her for the sacrifice.”

Sacrifice.

I didn’t wait. I forced the heavy door—lighter than air this time—and ran.

© Yolanda Renée 2025

586 Words

Initially published on October 8, 2012, as Graveyards and Mausoleums, rewritten for this year’s Halloween Celebration.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Photo by Allison Saeng on Unsplash

GODDESS - A Halloween Treat

 

 Photo by Олег Мороз on Unsplash

GODDESS

I am a practical, disciplined man shaped by twenty years in the Navy. Adventure and challenge defined me, yet the exodus from Afghanistan left a hollow ache. Retirement offered freedom but also emptiness. Seeking clarity, I arrived at the Meher Spiritual Center in Myrtle Beach, hoping to heal the fractures of my soul.

On the evening of October 7^th, beneath the harvest moon, I walked the beach. The breeze carried salt and warmth, and the tide whispered secrets. Then I heard it—a faint melody, delicate and sorrowful—Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. My feet moved south, drawn by the music, beyond the center’s property, beyond reason.

Over a high dune, I stopped. There she was. Or was it a vision? An angel? A mermaid risen from the surf? Moonlight drenched her in silver and gold. Her gown flowed like liquid light, her red and gold hair cascading over bare shoulders kissed by the waves. She raised her arms to the heavens. The Sonata flowing through her—through me.

Tears glimmered on her cheeks. Diamonds she brushed away, yet sorrow lingered. Her eyes—deep green, fathomless—caught mine. My chest tightened. The world shifted. I was drowning in her gaze, pulled by tides unseen.

She glided toward me across the sand. Time stilled. The universe narrowed. Our embrace inevitable. Our hearts beat as one. When our lips met, the world disappeared. The Sonata swelled around us, carrying us through cosmoses of light and color, desire and memory intertwined. In that kiss, I glimpsed lifetimes—past and future, vows eternal, love unbroken across time. Our bodies connected in love. I held her close, whispering words of love not forgotten. She never spoke. We lay together for hours, and at some point, I fell asleep.

When my eyes opened, the moon was veiled behind clouds. My arms were empty. She was gone. Yet I could still feel her warmth, the ghost of her touch, and the lingering taste of her lips. My soul ached, hollowed by her absence.

I wandered the shore until dawn, following whispers of her melody on the wind and tide. But the night held its secret. Was she real? A siren of the Moonlight Sonata? A spirit of longing? Or had the universe given me a fleeting glimpse of a heart’s eternal desire?

Her beauty lingered in my senses—the shimmer of her hair, the silk of her gown, the pulse of her kiss. The memory of her left me breathless, yearning, haunted. Even in her absence, she had claimed a piece of me, stolen it into the moonlight, leaving only longing in its wake.

Wherever she is, whether she is of this world or another. But I know this: I had found my goddess, my moonlit enchantress, and a part of me would remain lost to her forever.

I will never stop searching for her, drawn forever by the haunting music, the moonlight, and the promise of a love that defies time. Whatever her purpose, I was at peace.

 

© Yolanda Renée 2025

500 Words

Formerly published on August 17, 2022, for the WEP, rewritten for this year’s Halloween Celebration.

 

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Photo by Doriana Popa on Unsplash

 

INSOMNIA - A Halloween Treat

 

Photo by Debashis RC Biswas on Unsplash

 INSOMNIA

The room is swallowed in darkness. The only glow comes from the red digits of the clock on the nightstand, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. I tell myself it’s only a clock, but the way it stares through the dark feels like a warning.

I can only sleep in silence and shadow, and even then, rest is a rare gift. Insomnia is my curse.

Tonight, though, exhaustion claimed me quickly. A day spent lifting furniture, unpacking boxes, and forcing order into chaos left me drained. I had managed to complete just one room—the bedroom, a sanctuary. Everything in it had fallen into place too easily, as though the house itself had been waiting for me. Dark wood floors polished smooth, carved trim that seemed older than memory, a king bed draped in white organza—perfect—too perfect.

When I finally lay down, I slipped into sleep at once.

But now I am awake.

My eyes snap open, ears straining. A sound stirs the air. Not the floorboards. Not the shifting timbers of an old house. Something else. Something deliberate.

Again, it comes. A presence. Someone is in the room.

“Who’s there?” My voice is thin and shaky.

Silence.

Yet I know. Fear grips me, pins me to the bed. I cannot move. I cannot breathe.

She is beside me. I cannot see her clearly, but I feel her weight, her gaze. Then—just enough light from the clock touches her face. Blonde hair frames pale skin. A smile that brings terror. Eyes, black and endless, lock onto mine.

“What do you want?” The words scrape from my throat.

She does not answer. She only leans closer. Closer still. Until her breath should be on my cheek, though I feel nothing but the crushing cold.

“Help me…” I try to scream, but the sound dissolves as my heartbeat slows… and stops.

I no longer suffer from insomnia.

My new home—this perfect bedroom, this perfect trap—sits untouched and unused, a shrine to the living I no longer am. I wander instead, the soft whisper of my gown brushing across the boards, the only trace of me.

Now, I seek out the dark. I wait in it, patient, hidden in shadows, aching for a life gone.

As a ghost, I do not sleep. I wait.

I wait for the next restless soul, the next weary seeker of silence and blackness. Only light can bar me from them. Only light can save them from my stare.

For when they meet my eyes, they will see their death—and my release.

Exactly what she wanted from me. Her freedom, purchased with my final breath.

And one day, when the house claims another, I will lean close, blonde hair spilling forward, eyes gone dark and endless.

The cycle will go on.

The only question is—will it be you?

…After all, you’re already here, in the dark, reading my words.

And I am very good at finding those who keep the lights low.

 

© Yolanda Renée 2025

500 Words

Initially published on March 29, 2013, rewritten for this year’s Halloween Celebration.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Photo by Camara Negra on Unsplash