Chapter 1: Uninvited Power

Stan tugs the vampire cape straight, not satisfied with the way it settles on his shoulders. The material—cheap, shiny, the edges fraying—keeps catching on his jaw when he tries to flip it up. Red lining glares around the collar, brighter in the candlelight than he expected.

The costume’s fangs never fit quite right, but he pushes them in again, tongue poking the plastic, mouth aching already. Spent the whole week talking up this party. Now the room feels too dark.

The couch sags with the weight of six pumpkins. To top it off, the air is stale from the fake fog machine by the TV.

Lisa moves through the living room with her arms full of orange crepe streamers. She smooths the front of her nurse uniform, fingers tracing the white apron’s edge. Tugging the skirt an inch lower before letting it ride up again.

The thigh-high stockings squeeze her legs. The elastic tops make indentations, and she attempts to flatten them with her palm. Obsessively, every few seconds, she must hitch the top of one and check for runs. Her heels click softly on the floor, the only loud noise with the music not yet on.

Lisa smiles at the dancing skeleton taped above the fireplace, straightens its paper hat, and glances at Stan for approval.

For his part, Stan doesn’t notice. He’s got his eyes locked on the front window, fighting with the curtain so the neighbors don’t spy inside. But he wants them to know. Stan wants this party to matter. Wants guests to talk about it in class for weeks, even the ones he barely knows.

Plastic bones hang from the ceiling, catching the dusty yellow bulbs and spinning in slow, lazy circles. Cobwebs cover the lamps. Stan’s proud of those—spent half an hour spacing them just right.

The kitchen counter overflows with goodies. Covered with bags of chips. Three family-size popcorn bowls and a punch bowl packed with enough vodka to make one drunk on the fumes. Staring up from the booze, floating eyeballs made of peeled grapes and black olives.

The only thing missing is people.

“Don’t worry, sweetie pie, I don’t think anyone’s coming this early,” Lisa says. She holds a package of plastic spiders, her voice a murmur, uncertain if she should put one on the cheese platter. Smiles, waiting for Stan to respond.

“Yeah, but if you want to do this right, you’ve gotta do it all the way,” Stan says, adjusting his fangs. “They look good.” He means the stockings. He doesn’t say it, but Lisa blushes anyway.

A sudden knock at the door makes Lisa almost drop the spiders. She laughs, nervous and anxious, and wipes her hands on her skirt. Stan stiffens, fixes his cape, and stands by the entryway, feigning he’s relaxed. The second knock comes before he even gets there.

Standing in the hallway, Wesley and Carol. His werewolf arms spill black fur over his wrists, claws made of aluminum foil taped to each finger. Sweat slicks the brown hair plastered to his forehead.

Already searching the room for something safer than his own discomfort, Wesley’s pale blue eyes stare past Stan. The rest of the costume is jeans and a t-shirt, but the pointy, hairy ears peeking through the headband finish the effect.

Carol appears smaller than Lisa. The witch’s dress is almost too long, and it pools around her ankles. The pointed hat tilts to one side, threatening to fall with every step. Her curls are vivid red, brighter in the light of hallway fixture.

And she’s lined her eyes, heavy and dark, so that every blink seems shy, half hoping not to be seen. The broom bumps against her leg when she walks.

“Should’ve come in costume too, Stan,” Wesley says, grinning. The fangs make him lisp. “Oh, wait. You did.” Barely pausing, Wesley steps inside, but the fur on his sleeve catches on the doorknob and he stops, peeling it free.

Carol hovers just behind him.

“Damn, girl, smells amazing in here,” she says. “You guys went all out.” Brushing the cobweb off the brim, she lifts her hat and slips inside. The first thing that catches her eye is the row of pumpkins on the coffee table. Jagged smiles, candle guts flickering from the inside, faces carved with uneven pleasure.

Lisa beams, proud.

“The skeleton’s Stan’s idea. I did the pumpkins and the punch.” She holds up the bowl, the floating eyeballs rolling against the rim.

Shaking her head, Carol laughs and says, “Nope, not drinking anything that gapes back at me.”

Near the kitchen, Wesley inspects the snack spread and opens a bag of chips. Fake blood drips from the punch ladle and stains the rim of every cup. The smell of old popcorn hides under the sugar and vodka fumes.

With her skirt fanning out, Carol leans over the table and pokes a skeleton hand peeking through the candy bowl.

Already thinking about the next knock, Stan closes the door and moves toward the group, cape snapping at his heels. He checks the music. Still dead quiet in the chamber. Thumb hovers over the speaker, but he waits. Wants the moment to last. Desires the costumes to matter.

“You really got into this, Care,” Lisa says, tugging Carol’s sleeve. “The hat’s perfect. Makes me think you could actually curse somebody.”

Hugging herself a little, Carol laughs.

“Should’ve brought my cat. He’s the actual witch in our home. Wesley kept sneezing the whole time I got ready.”

Wesley shakes his head.

“The fur’s not real, if anyone’s wondering. But these fangs are supposed to glow in the dark.” He smiles, the plastic big and goofy, then bites into a chip and talks through the crunch. “Next year, I’m doing something with less fur.”

Stan tries a joke about shedding all over the couch. No one laughs, but Lisa smooths the awkwardness by offering drinks, her voice higher than usual.

The music finally comes on—some Halloween track piped so soft it barely covers the crackle of the fog machine and the hum from the kitchen light. The room shrinks around the four of them, shadows twitching across the walls.