“The Barrette”
She never cared for Halloween.
While others wore costumes and drank at parties, she stayed home — no masks, no pumpkins, no make-believe. She was the manager of Crescent Grill, a little restaurant in the shopping center, and work was always excuse enough.
But this year, October 31st would not be so easily ignored.
Earlier that night, a man stormed into the restaurant — raving, shouting, flipping chairs — chaos. It left the whole staff shaken and behind schedule. By the time the last table was cleaned and the receipts closed, it was long past midnight. She waved her employees home, insisting she’d finish the closing alone.
The parking lot was deserted. The kind of silence where even her own footsteps seemed too loud. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and started the long walk toward her car, parked beneath a broken light.
That’s when she smelled it.
A foul, sour odor that didn’t belong to asphalt or autumn leaves.
She stopped. And from the patch of woods at the far edge of the lot, something stepped out.
It was hunched, hairy, its eyes burning red in the dark. Its claws scraped the pavement. Drool hung in long strings from its jaw, teeth short and jagged, glinting beneath the moon.
She froze.
And then—it lunged.
The creature’s hand clamped around her wrist. She screamed, but it dragged her into the trees, through the brush, and down into a hollowed chamber beneath the earth. A grotesque shelter of twisted roots and scavenged wood.
There, it bound her wrists to a crude table. Its claws scratched symbols into the dirt, chanting in a tongue not meant for human ears. The sound pulsed in her skull until darkness took her.
When she awoke, she was home.
In her bed.
Morning light poured through the blinds.
It had to have been a dream. Just a dream. She tried to believe it — until she stepped into the shower and saw them.
Rope burns. Faint, but real, circling her wrists.
Her chest tightened.
“No,” she whispered. “No, it wasn’t real.”
She forced it out of her mind, went about her day off, and told herself she was fine.
But the next morning, November 1st, she returned to work. Instinct guided her car to the same parking space. Halloween was over, and she was grateful for it.
And yet—
As she crossed the lot, something stirred at the corner of her eye. She turned. The woods stood silent, untouched. But her pulse quickened, pulling her toward them.
The dream came flooding back. The roots, the table, the chanting. She pushed through the brush, expecting nothing.
And at first, she found nothing.
No path. No underground shelter. No trace of what she’d seen.
She almost laughed — almost.
And then she saw it.
Caught in the dirt, glinting in the weak sun.
A small, silver barrette.
Her barrette.
The one she wore the night she swore she’d only dreamed.
She picked it up, her fingers trembling. The woods were still. Too still.
And in the silence, one thought pressed against her skull like a whisper she couldn’t ignore:
“It wasn’t a dream.”