The party is a good one. People are dancing, laughing, shouting over the music. The bass thumps through the floorboards like a heartbeat, and the air smells of cider, sweat, and synthetic fog. Costumes swirl in a kaleidoscope of velvet, latex, sequins, and face paint—witches with glowing eyes, vampires with bloodied lips, ghosts trailing gauze, goblins with twitching LED horns. The music and the crowd blur into one pulsing organism, alive with celebration.
Everyone seems thrilled just to be here.
Except for me.
I stand at the edge of the party, half-shadowed by a plastic skeleton strung up in the corner. Maybe I’m content to be on the sidelines. Maybe I’m just lying to myself. Either way, I’m here—watching, not participating.
I was invited by my best friend. She’s a sultry, lovely, dark-haired beauty. I used to have a crush on her, back when I thought longing was the same as love. Now she’s just someone I cherish.
She’s here with her boyfriend. A good guy. A confident guy. A fucking handsome guy. Asshole.
But tonight is not about my friend. For the past hour, I’ve been watching a girl across the room. A redhead dressed in a sleek, custom-made costume—half skeleton, half witch. The fabric clings to her like it was stitched from shadows and silk. Her hat tilts just enough to cast mystery across her face, and the bone detailing glows faintly under the blacklight. She’s a vision I can’t blink away from.
At least ten men have approached her. Confident types. Smiling, charming, full of swagger. She’s been gracious with each one—polite, warm, even playful. But she’s turned them all away. Every single one. Her kindness is as intoxicating as her beauty, but I know it’s a shallow judgment. I don’t know her. I’ve never met her. All I know is that her smile feels like a spell I’ve already fallen under.
I’ve wished a hundred times tonight that I could walk over and talk to her. But I must be wishing on a defective star. My feet won’t move. My chest tightens every time I think about it. I’m not like those other guys. No one’s looked at me all night. Not once. That fact alone tells me everything I need to know.
Outside, the yard is littered with orange and yellow leaves, rustling under the feet of tiny trick-or-treaters. The air smells of damp earth and pumpkin spice. Lights strung across the porch cast a warm glow on the sidewalk, where little spooks and superheroes parade past with squeals of delight. At the door, the host hands out candy with theatrical flair, laughing with the children like she’s one of them.
I watch the scene until I feel I’ve earned enough distance from my own discomfort. Then I look back—and she’s looking at me.
Her eyes meet mine across the room. I freeze. My breath catches. I don’t know where to look, but I can’t look away. Her smile is slow, deliberate, and it hooks something deep inside me. When she starts walking toward me, the crowd seems to part for her. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. My pulse races. Sweat beads on my forehead. I feel like I’m being hunted.
She stops in front of me. “Hello,” she says.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
She smiles at my silence. “Do you always sweep girls off their feet like this?”
I laugh, awkward and breathless. Her voice is velvet and smokey. But inside, I feel like a spotlight’s been turned on me. My skin prickles. I scan the room, expecting eyes on me, judgment, mockery. I look for traps, for flames, for escape routes.
Then her finger touches my chin—soft, cool, deliberate. My eyes snap back to hers.
“You are irresistible,” she says, her smile deepening.
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice trembling.
She takes my hand. Her fingers are impossibly small, cold as moonlight, delicate as frost. The moment her skin touches mine, a strange calm washes over me. Like sinking into a warm bath after a panic attack.
“It’s a nice costume you have on,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “It looks really expensive.”
“Thank you,” she replies, lifting her other arm to show off the details. The fabric shimmers like oil on water. “I’ve had this dress and hat for a very long time. Seems like ages.”
“You’re a witch?” I ask.
“No,” she says, her eyes gleaming. “I’m a Phobophage.”
“A what? A…”
She laughs. The sound is electric—low, sultry, and charged. It shoots through my chest like lightning. Her grip tightens slightly.
“A Phobophage,” she repeats. “It’s a spirit that feeds off fear.”
I smile, half in disbelief, half in awe. She’s not joking. Her eyes say she’s not joking. And something inside me believes her. But my heart sinks.
She closes her eyes and smiles wider, like she’s tasting something exquisite. Her head tilts back slightly, exposing the pale curve of her throat.
Can she feel how scared I am? Can she actually be enjoying it?
“Yes,” she says.
“Yes what?” I ask, my voice barely audible.
Her eyes flutter open. Her smile is radiant, almost feverish.
“You are delicious,” she says.
Before I can speak, she turns and pulls me with her. I follow without thinking. Her grip is firm, her pace swift. The crowd doesn’t seem to notice as she leads me through the house, down a hallway I hadn’t seen before. The music fades behind us. The air grows cooler.
She stops at a door, unlocks it with a key I never saw her take out, and pulls me down a spiral stone staircase. The walls are damp, the air smells of moss and old stone. This basement doesn’t belong to the house above—it feels ancient, buried, forgotten.
At the base of the stairs, the room opens wide. Eight antique mirrors stand in a perfect circle, their frames carved with symbols I don’t recognize. The air hums with energy. Candlelight flickers from sconces along the walls, casting long shadows that seem to move on their own.
She pulls me into the center of the circle. We stop.
I look into the mirrors. Each one shows me at a different age—different moments of fear. Me as a child, crying in the dark. Me at school, humiliated. Me at my father’s funeral. Me alone in my apartment, staring at the ceiling. I feel my knees weaken. My breath shortens. I can’t comprehend what I’m seeing.
She begins to moan—low, heated, breathy. It’s not just pleasure. It’s hunger. Her grip on my hand tightens. Her skin begins to warm, pulsing with heat like a living ember.