Danny Marsh had spent three weeks on his zombie costume. Three weeks of YouTube tutorials watched on a cracked phone screen, of measuring corn syrup into teacups while his mum was at work, of practising the hollowed-eye look in the bathroom mirror until his little sister said he looked “proper dead”. Grey face paint mixed with flour for texture. Ripped charity shop clothes stained with food colouring and coffee grounds. Fake blood from corn syrup and cocoa powder, applied with a paintbrush his mum had found in the garage.
“It’s brilliant, love,” his mum had said that afternoon, adjusting the torn collar of his shirt. She’d helped him shred the fabric, careful not to waste anything. “You’ll fit right in with your new mates.”
“I want to be exactly like them,” Danny had said, and meant it.
The others had all gone to The Costume Closet, the pop-up shop that had appeared in the old Woolworths on the high street three weeks ago. Everyone at school had been talking about it. The costumes in the window looked incredible—professional quality, the kind you’d see in films. Danny had walked past it twice, hands in his pockets, looking at the price tags. His mum was working double shifts at the care home as it was.
So he’d made his own. And actually, standing in front of the mirror before leaving, his chest swelled with something like pride.
Now, shuffling down Oakwood Drive with the others, he tugged at his collar. Kyle’s perfect cape swished past, catching the streetlight.
Kyle had gone as a vampire. His costume was perfect—black velvet cape that seemed to shimmer under the streetlights, pale makeup that looked airbrushed on, and realistic fangs that moved when he spoke. Jack was a werewolf, his mask so detailed you could see individual hairs. Mia wore a witch’s outfit, all flowing black fabric and a pointed hat that somehow stayed on despite the wind. And Connor, who’d always been the joker of the group, had chosen a ghost costume—but not the bedsheet kind. This was something else, translucent fabric that caught the light strangely, making him look almost see-through.
They’d been trick-or-treating for an hour now, and Danny’s bag was heavy with sweets. The back of his neck prickled. Kyle’s laugh sounded wrong—too bright, held a beat too long.
It had started small. Kyle hadn’t blinked in ten minutes. Hadn’t checked his phone. Hadn’t even wiped away the dribble of fake blood that had run down his chin twenty houses ago. Not when old Mrs Patterson had complimented his cape, not when Jack had tripped on a kerb, not even when they’d passed the chippy and Connor had usually started begging to stop. Kyle just smiled, showing his fangs, and said “Thank you for your offering” in this low, formal voice that didn’t sound like him at all.
Danny had laughed at first, but it came out strangled, more cough than humour. Method acting, surely. Kyle taking the piss.
But then Jack had stopped at the corner of Birch Road and tilted his head back, staring at the moon. Really staring, like he’d never seen it before. The gesture was too fluid, too animal. When Danny had said, “You alright, mate?” Jack had turned to him with eyes that caught the light like a cat’s. Danny’s breath caught. His hands went cold.
“The moon calls,” Jack had said, and his voice was rough, eager.
Danny laughed again, but the sound died in his throat. “Yeah, nice one.”
Mia hadn’t laughed. She’d been muttering under her breath for the last ten minutes, fingers moving like she was counting something invisible. Every now and then she’d pluck something from the air—a dead leaf, a bit of litter—and tuck it into her pockets with this satisfied little nod.
And Connor. Connor’s trainers skimmed the pavement, toes dragging light as feathers, leaving no scuff marks. Danny had watched, trying to work out if it was a trick of the costume, some hidden platform in the shoes, but no. Connor was floating, just an inch or two above the pavement, drifting alongside them like he weighed nothing at all.
Danny’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He couldn’t swallow. He kept shuffling forward in his homemade costume, face paint itching, trying to stay in character. Because that was the thing—they hadn’t noticed he was different. They treated him like he was one of them, like he belonged to whatever this was.
A group of younger kids rounded the corner ahead, maybe eight or nine years old, dressed as superheroes and princesses. They were loud, high on sugar and excitement, their parents trailing behind with torches and tired smiles.
Kyle’s head snapped towards them with a speed that wasn’t natural. Danny heard him inhale deeply, like he was smelling something delicious.
“Fresh prey,” Kyle whispered, and started walking faster.
The others followed. Danny’s feet moved automatically, keeping pace, even as every instinct shrieked run, run, get away from them.
The younger kids saw them coming and squealed with delight. “Cool costumes!” one of them shouted.
Kyle smiled. Jack’s hands had started to curl into claws. Mia was chanting something now, actual words in a language Danny didn’t recognise, and Connor had floated higher, tall enough to loom over the little ones.
The parents laughed nervously. “Alright, alright, you’ve had your fun. Let the little ones pass, yeah?”
But Kyle didn’t move. He was staring at a small boy dressed as Spider-Man, and his tongue—too long, too red—had slid across his lips.
Danny wanted to scream at them to run. To grab their kids and sprint.
Instead, he let out a low moan, arms stretched forward. Playing his part.
The younger kids scattered, laughing, thinking it was a game. Their parents hurried them along, still chuckling. “Teenagers,” one of them muttered, but one of them glanced back twice, walking a little faster.
Kyle watched them go, head tilted, and Danny saw the frustration flicker across his face. Then he turned to the others.
“The next ones,” he said simply.
They kept walking.
Maple Grove was quieter, the houses set further back from the road. Fewer streetlights. Danny’s pulse beat in his throat, his ears, behind his eyes as they moved through pools of darkness. He couldn’t leave. Couldn’t break character. Because the moment he did, they’d know. They’d turn those wrong, hungry faces towards him and realise he wasn’t like them. That he’d never been like them.
A small figure appeared ahead, maybe seven years old, dressed as a fairy. She was alone, her parents presumably waiting by a car or distracted by a sibling. Danny thought: perfect target. The thought made him sick, bile rising in his throat.
Kyle moved first, faster than before, and the little girl looked up with wide eyes. Jack followed, and Mia, and Connor drifted closer, cutting off the retreat.
“Trick or treat,” Kyle said, but his voice was all wrong now, layered with something else.
The fairy took a step back. She could tell. Kids always could.
Danny shambled forward with them, arms out, face frozen in its painted grimace. The girl’s eyes skipped over him—just another monster, just another costume—and fixed on Kyle.
“I want my mummy,” she said, voice small.
“Soon,” Kyle promised, and there was such kindness in his tone that it was worse than any threat.
The girl turned and ran, disappearing between two houses.
Jack snarled and took off after her, and oh god, oh god, Danny had to keep up, had to keep shuffling forward like this was all part of the game. He heard a gate crash open, heard the little girl’s scream cut short, and then Jack was back, emerging from the darkness behind the fence.
There was something dark on his chin. It glistened under the streetlight, wet and red. Jack was grinning, really grinning, with all his teeth showing.
“Sweet,” he said, and licked his lips.
Danny’s bladder cramped. He clenched every muscle. He made a noise—half-moan, half-sob—but it came out sounding exactly right, and the others glanced at him and nodded approval.
“Good,” Mia said, and her voice had changed too, gone sing-song and strange. “You’re learning.”
They kept walking.
Danny didn’t know what else to do. He shuffled along with them, arms extended, as they moved through the streets. They found more children. A boy dressed as a pirate who froze when Connor floated above him, mouth open in a silent scream before his father grabbed him and ran. A pair of twins dressed as cats who watched, fascinated, as Mia waved her hands and their fur seemed to rise on end, electric and terrified.
And with each encounter, Kyle’s movements got faster, Jack’s claws got longer, Mia’s chants got louder, and Connor drifted higher until he was level with the first-floor windows.
Danny’s face paint was running now, mixing with sweat, but he kept his expression slack, his movements slow. The perfect zombie. The perfect mask.
By the time they reached the town centre, most people had gone home. The streets were nearly empty, just scattered sweet wrappers and the occasional jack-o’-lantern flickering out on doorsteps. The Costume Closet’s windows were dark, the sign switched off.
Kyle stopped in front of it. They all did. Danny shuffled to a halt beside them, looking at his reflection in the black glass. Five monsters. Or four, and one boy with flour and face paint, praying they couldn’t tell the difference.
“Tomorrow,” Kyle said, and his voice was entirely something else now, nothing human left in it at all. “Tomorrow we’ll find better prey. Bigger prey.”
The others nodded, eager. Connor was almost at rooftop height now, a pale blur against the night sky. Mia’s fingers traced patterns in the air that left glowing trails. Jack’s face had elongated, his jaw too wide, too full of teeth.
“Go home,” Kyle said, and it took Danny a moment to realise he wasn’t included in the command. “We’ll meet again when the sun sets. The hunt continues.”
They dispersed. Connor drifted upwards, disappearing over the rooftops. Jack dropped to all fours and loped into an alley. Mia simply stepped into a shadow and vanished.
Kyle looked at Danny for a long moment. Danny kept his face slack, his eyes dead, every muscle screaming at him to stay still, stay in character, don’t let him see.
“You’re quiet,” Kyle said.
Danny moaned. Low and guttural. His best zombie impression.
Kyle smiled—no trace of his friend left in that expression—and reached out to pat Danny’s shoulder. His hand was cold, so cold it burned even through the fabric.
“You’ll do,” Kyle said. “You’re one of us now.”
Then he was gone too, moving with that unnatural speed, a blur of cape and pale skin and fangs.
Danny stood alone in front of The Costume Closet. He counted to thirty. Then sixty. Then a hundred.
Nothing moved. The street was empty.
He turned. His legs unlocked. He ran—proper running, arms pumping, chest screaming, not caring about the face paint streaming down his neck or the bag of sweets bouncing against his hip. He ran until the shop was a yellow blur behind him, until the streetlights became streaks, until his lungs burned and his vision swam and he couldn’t run anymore.
***
Detective Constable Sarah Mills arrived at the station early the next morning to find the duty officer looking grey.
“What is it?” she asked, setting down her coffee.
“Missing children,” he said. “Seventeen calls overnight. Kids went out trick-or-treating and never came home.”
Sarah’s coffee cup stopped halfway to her mouth. “Seventeen?”
“All of them wearing costumes from that new shop. The Costume Closet.” He handed her the list of names. “Parents are frantic. We’ve got officers doing door-to-doors, but Sarah… it’s like they vanished.”
She scanned the list. Kyle Mitchell. Jack Hammond. Mia Patel. Connor Bradshaw.
Seventeen names. Seventeen children.
At the bottom of the page, someone had added a note in pencil: One boy came home. Danny Marsh, 14, Oakwood Drive. Says he was with them. Says he doesn’t know where they went. Won’t stop crying. Parents want someone to talk to him.
Sarah picked up her keys. “I’m on it.”
Outside, the sun was shining on an ordinary November morning. The streets were littered with sweets and torn decorations from the night before. Jack-o’-lanterns sat rotting on doorsteps, their grins gone soggy in the autumn damp.
And in the old Woolworths building, The Costume Closet’s windows remained dark, its racks empty, its door locked tight.
The sign was gone.
It was like it had never been there at all.
End
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