Halloween Nightmare
by (Hidden)
Horror Sex Story: Step into the shadows of a twisted Halloween evening. Where the city throbs with forbidden desires and a masked stranger prowls the streets in pursuit of his darkest fantasy, meet Tammy - a figure of icy resolve amidst the chaos, venturing into an alley’s shadows where secrets simmer and hidden desires lurk.
Caution: This Horror Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Rape Heterosexual Fiction Crime MaleDom Humiliation Rough Anal Sex Oral Sex Size .
On Halloween night, Tammy strode through the riot. With her head high, skirt straight, high heels a shade too white under the streetlight’s glare. Fake blood spattered the cement in curdled puddles, and orange streamers snaked above the street, fat with wind.
Three girls in catsuits lurched past, giggling. One blew a kiss, smeared with glitter and malice. Tammy shot her a wink. The girl tripped, howled wolfishly, and kept moving.
The bar’s windows pulsed with purple light, and the bass drum boomed. The line outside swelled against the rope, costumes mashed into one garish mural. One Donald Trump, four inflatable Minions, a knot of vampires with $12 fangs, and more eye shadow than Tammy wore in her life.
She angled between them with a practiced lean, arms close, phone zipped in the nurse’s pocket. She’d have to text Eli soon, or he’d start pacing.
Her own getup came together this morning. White dress, tights, and thrift store patent Mary Janes. A cap with a wonky red cross. The skirt hit above the knee, but the look was classic, not slutty. Maybe a little slutty. It pleased her to see people notice, to see the little flickers as she passed.
The guys leered, girls measuring, everyone making mental notes.
When she ducked a flying streamer, the ends sticky with spilled whiskey, fluttered above her. The guy in a werewolf mask grinned at her, lost interest, his latex tongue wagging as he bared past. It was all staged menace, all bark, zero bite. She never felt safer than on a night like this.
Traffic shrieked one block over. The cold bit Tammy’s knuckles, but her core stayed warm from all the bodies jammed together on the sidewalk. Tammy fished her phone, thumbed a text. The screen glowed: Party’s on, u in? She hesitated and thumbed: Already here, nurse on call. U?
Moments later, Eli’s response: Party in the lot. Stash me a shot.
Staring at the screen, Tammy grinned and shoved the phone away. In the shadows of the night, her shortcut took her between a boarded bodega and a vape store. The alley was packed with costumed folks. Two witches in fishnets, a pirate groping his parrot with one hand and his crotch with the other. Some guy in boxers and a neon-green wig. The smell of weed and sour apple vape.
A girl cackled so hard, she rattled a milk crate.
Marching through the gathering, her pace didn’t falter. Someone catcalled. But she ignored it. She was almost to the parking lot, her shortcut doing its job, when the sense hit her. Just a breath on the back of her neck. Dragging it out, she pivoted, feigning a need to fix her shoe.
Nobody obvious.
The same chaos, the same swirl of limbs and laughter. Maybe the guy in the trench coat, standing stone still at the far corner, with no costume except the face paint—bone-white, with a slash of black for the eyes. His eyes were so blue they looked fake. Contact lenses. Hiding her smile, Tammy turned away. Halloween always drew out the creeps.
With nothing to worry her, she moved on. The lot was half-lit, the overhead busted. Her sneakers crunched glass and gravel. The crowd thinned here, a few lone stragglers and a couple making out behind a parked Civic. She saw Eli first—tall, in his red devil horns, flask in hand, arguing with someone in a moth-eaten banana suit.
“You’re late,” Eli said, his breath ghosting in the cold.
“False,” Tammy shot back, “You’re early.”
Unscrewing the flask cap, Eli handed it over.
The rum burned her throat. Coughing, she wiped her lips with the heel of her palm.
“Classy shit, Eli.”
He shrugged.
“You look good. Real Florence Nightingale. You got the hair right.”
Tammy grinned. Even when he laid it on thick, she liked Eli’s approval.
“You try to get blood out of curls,” she said. “It doesn’t wash.”
The banana interrupted: “We’re partying or what?”
Distracted, Eli turned. The moment broke. Rolling it between her fingers, Tammy held the flask, feeling the dent where someone had dropped it last spring.
Out on the street, the blue-eyed guy in the trench coat waited. He did not move. He did not blink.
Tammy felt the weight of his gaze, even with the crowd between them. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. Pretending not to, making believe she was interested only in Eli. And the flask, or the way the wind pushed empty chip bags across the lot. But the guy did not leave. He studied her.
In a brief salute, Tammy lifted the flask, gave him a half-smile, and turned away for good. Let him stare. He was harmless, probably. If he followed, she’d duck into a bar or ask the bouncers for help. People took care of each other on Halloween.
The party was two blocks over. Tammy and Eli and the banana peeled off (ha) from the parking lot, and the noise ramped up again. Tammy’s cap fell sideways in the wind. Eli fixed it, his enormous hands awkward but gentle.
They rounded the corner at Fisher and Main, and Tammy checked her phone, half-expecting another text. Instead, she felt the itch—someone tracking her from behind.
She glanced. The trench coat guy moved now, long strides, slicing through the crowd with surgical precision. People swerved to avoid him, or maybe he saw their paths a second before they took them, always in the right place at the right time. He didn’t even pretend to look away when she caught him.
The cold edged up her spine. Not fear, not yet. A jolt of something—animal, not rational. Tammy put a hand on Eli’s arm.
“That guy?” she said, as subtly as she could.
Eli glanced, unimpressed. “He’s not even in costume.”
“Exactly! Amateur hour.” Tammy said.
Eli grinned and forgot about it. Banana needed help crossing the street; he nearly wiped out on a patch of ice. Tammy hung back, giving them space. She watched as the trench coat guy slowed, pretending interest in a storefront, fingers to his lips as if lost in thought. He waited until she started walking again.
She pulled out her phone, held it up, and took a selfie with the street as a backdrop. She made sure he was visible, blurry but distinct, a shadow in the crowd behind her. The flash caught his eyes; they glinted blood red, icy, and bright.
The party was up a flight of stairs in an old dental office, now rented by college kids with more ambition than taste. The hallway was too narrow, the banister sticky with spilled punch. Careful not to trip, Tammy led Eli and the banana behind her. She heard his footsteps on the stairs outside, clear as day. Measured, deliberate, not drunk at all.
The host wore a sheet and called himself the ghost of student loans. He greeted them with red Solo cups and a howl. Tammy beelined for the bathroom, locked the door, and stared at herself in the mirror.
Her cheeks flushed pink under the smeared blush. The red cross had come unpinned; she straightened it. She laughed, silently, at her own reflection. Was she actually worried? About a guy in a trench coat with too-blue eyes?
She took out her phone. The photo was there: the stranger, behind her, closer than she’d thought.
Tammy pocketed the phone, splashed water on her face, and dried herself with the hand towel. When she unlatched the door, she stepped out into the chaos. The banana was dancing. Eli was making drinks in the kitchen, pouring too much vodka for a cluster of superheroes and anime girls.
Finally, she relaxed. The world closed in again, warm and alive. The music thumped, the lights strobed. When she found Eli, she handed him a drink, and they leaned on the battered kitchen counter together. He told her a story about a haunted fraternity house, and she listened, nodding and laughing at all the right parts.
The world was safe.
Until, hours later, when she left to smoke on the fire escape, she saw him again. The blue-eyed man in the trench coat. He stood on the opposite roof, watching, his eyes fixed on her through the dark.
This time, she stared back for a long, long time.
With her shoes squelching in spilled beer as she threaded the old stairs, Tammy left the party at midnight. The air outside hit her full in the face, sharp as bleach. Most of the crowd had migrated uptown or collapsed in the bar. So the streets felt hollow, swept clean by the last rush of wind. Halloween always faded fastest after midnight.
Letting the leftovers wash past her, she drifted toward the main avenue. Tortoise-like, superheroes with capes drooping, a drag queen in six-inch stilettos lighting up under a streetlamp, the crowd passed by.
A clown offered her a hit from his vape pen. Grinning, she shook her head and snapped a photo of his rubber chicken. People like him kept the world upright.
She moved with purpose, but not urgency. Her shift started at eight, plenty of time to sleep if she got home soon. The walk would clear her head. Tammy checked her phone, saw the time, and weighed the options. The shortcut tempted her: three blocks over, cut through the warehouse district, half the distance but ten times creepier at this hour.
She didn’t mind creepy. The real creeps were the ones who hid behind masks and never left their basements. Staring at their pretend girlfriends on the screens, whacking off, with their mothers shouting down, “What are you up to down there?”
Twenty- to fifty-year-old INCELs who are still living at home. Too weird, ugly, or awkward to maintain a relationship. Pissed off with all the rejection, hating women, hating themselves. Too creepy, so much so, meeting a girl and having a one-night stand can’t happen. Whores won’t hook up with most of them.
She set off down the side street. Her steps sounded too loud, and she liked the echo. It made her feel taller. The world here was different, drained of its party colors and left to the burned orange of dying streetlights.
Someone had tipped a dumpster, its contents vomiting onto the curb. Scattering, shredded cardboard, a half-eaten bag of candy, a severed Barbie head. Tammy kicked the head and watched it bounce into the gutter.
Past the corner, the shops all slept behind rolling gates. The only light came from the grimy windows of the all-night bodega, its sign blinking anemically. She waved to the owner, who always dozed behind the counter. He didn’t wave back.
She turned left, deeper into the warehouse row. While holding the phone with one hand, her cap slipped, and she fixed it with the other. She texted Eli: you alive? No answer. Probably passed out with banana somewhere.
A cold pulse flicked her scalp. For no reason, she slowed and glanced behind her. Nothing. The empty street stretched out, the asphalt painted with shredded leaves. She laughed at herself, silken, and kept walking.
Two blocks ahead, the alley forked. Tammy stopped at the mouth of the narrower path, peering in. The shadows pressed up to the edges, hungry and thick. Her shortcut ran straight through, spitting her out at the bus stop. Shaking off the hesitation, she ducked in.
She got halfway before she heard the footsteps. Not an echo. Not hers, she stopped. Listened. The sound stopped too.
Tammy turned, peering into the gloom.
“Hello?” she said, voice steady.
Silence. The back of her neck prickled. She fished in her purse, feeling for the can of pepper spray she’d carried since her sophomore year. The familiar cylinder grounded her.
She walked on, faster now. The steps started up again, closer this time. Slow, unhurried, as if whoever followed wanted her to know. She spun, holding the spray at her side, thumb on the button.
The blue-eyed man from earlier emerged from the darkness, hands open, palms facing her. His coat flared behind him like a cape. He smiled—brief, bland, no teeth.
“Lose something?” he said, voice low and even.
“No.” Tammy did not smile back.
He shrugged.
“You dropped your badge.” Holding it up between two fingers. The fake nurse’s ID badge dangled from its clip.
She considered that he could’ve picked it up at the party. Or anywhere, really. “Thanks,” she said, flat, unmoved.
He closed the gap, a snail’s pace, measured, and held out the badge. Quick, she reached and snatched it from him. He didn’t try anything.
“Happy Halloween,” he said.
She backed away, not breaking eye contact. “Yeah. Happy Halloween.”
He stood in the middle of the alley, silent, letting her go.
Without running, Tammy moved as fast as she dared. Her heart banged in her chest, but she did not show it. At the end of the alley, she ducked into the lit bus stop, pulling out her phone again. She glanced back.
He was gone.
Long and slow, Tammy breathed, feeling the world slide back into focus.
A bus rumbled by, too early. She waved at the driver, who did not stop.
She started walking again, following the main road now, avoiding shortcuts, her eyes constantly scanning behind her. By the time she got home, she almost convinced herself it was nothing.
She made tea, locked the door, and set the pepper spray by her bed. She washed the blood from her skirt—someone else’s, she hoped. She turned out the lights.
Outside, on the far side of the street, the blue-eyed man leaned against a tree, hands in his pockets, watching her window. His face was patient, almost bored. He waited.
The surrounding shadows grew thicker around him. Thoughts of the out-of-place stranger faded.
She always liked the night, even after a weird one. Solitude pressed its tongue to the back of her teeth, familiar and almost welcome. The city thinned out at this hour, the traffic noise dulling into a wet-paper rustle.
Even the Halloween drunks scattered. Leaving behind only orange streamers stuck to the curb and a few bent stragglers slouched by the late-night pizza shops. She watched them from the corner of her eye, cataloguing threat level, and dismissed them one by one.
With every step, Tammy’s sneakers made a sound more like tap shoes than canvas. The noise felt wrong. Too crisp, too loud. The alley mouth waited ahead, a slit between looming facades. Daring her to choose the shortcut again. The truth was, every time, she did.
She’d never learned better.
Halfway in, she yanked out her phone. The screen painted her face blue-white, highlighting the shadows under her eyes. Letting herself pretend she didn’t care, she thumbed through her feed. But her back was itching. A primal warning.
The sound behind her was only the blood hum of city life.
She hit the halfway mark. The alley narrowed, walls bleeding with faded graffiti tags, dumpsters hunched close like old men with secrets. Not by choice, Tammy stopped. Her right foot slid and caught on an icy patch, and she jerked forward.
For no reason, her heart spiked. Scolding herself, but it didn’t stop her hands from curling tight around the phone.
Shadows danced across the path, but she kept walking, but lally-gaggingly. Straining, she listened. Another footstep joined hers. Not resonating from her own steps. Not quite, too in sync, too close together.
Quick as a fencer, Tammy’s head whipped back. The alley behind appeared clear. She saw only the lengthening shadow of her own frame, the white triangle of her costume’s skirt bright against the dark. Scanning the rooftops, the windows, the slits of dark between doors.
Nothing.
Faster now, she moved on, heels click-clacking loud enough to wake the sleeping rats. Her knuckles whitened. Her eyes darted from side to side, catching every smear of graffiti, every shift in the shadows.
At the second alley’s midpoint, the city sounds faded. The thumping music from the party three blocks over was a muffled suggestion. Only her own breathing remained, heavy and staccato. The bricks on either side pressed in, narrowing the path to little more than shoulder width.
Taking a moment to think, she reached into her purse, found the old, battered can of spray. Letting it rest in her hand, thumb tight on the plunger.
A soda can rattled ahead, rolling into the path. Tammy flinched. Her heart pounded double time. She considered turning back, but pride overruled. She’d seen worse. A can wasn’t a threat.
Marching forward, her posture ramrod straight, she refused to shrink. She passed the dumpsters, the old milk crate, the greasy cardboard stacked in the dark. At the alley’s far end, the street lamps blurred into a soft, sodium haze.
With a deep breath, Tammy’s shoulders relaxed. Safety at last, she made it. Laughing deep in her throat, she shook her head at herself.
Behind her, a new echo sounded. This time, not her footsteps. Too heavy. Too measured. Every muscle wired and alert, Tammy spun.
At the mouth of the alley, she saw him, a silhouette framed by the receding glow of streetlights. With his hands in the pockets of a long, dark coat, he stood still. Face painted blank, no emotion, only the glint of blue eyes in the hollow.
He didn’t move.
She held his gaze, defiant. “You lost?”
No answer.
The standoff stretched. Tammy felt her pulse in her earlobes. The man’s eyes stayed on her. Not breaking line of sight, she crept backward sluggishly. While the stranger stayed rooted. The distance between them didn’t close, but it didn’t shrink either.
When she reached the corner, she risked a glance behind and looked back. But he, whoever he was, was gone.
Sharp and loud, Tammy’s breath came out. She muttered a curse, kept moving, feet pounding a new, safer rhythm. She didn’t put the pepper spray away.
Weaving through an empty lot, she crossed the avenue, every nerve alive. The shortcut’s last leg took her between a half-constructed parking ramp and a row of shuttered, ramshackle shops. The white of her nurse’s skirt now a bullseye in the orange half-light, she walked faster.
Behind her, footsteps again. Faster, closing.
With that, she risked a glance. The blue-eyed man reappeared, closer this time. Still not running. He didn’t need to. With eyes wide and wild, Tammy’s pace turned into a jog. She yanked the bag higher on her shoulder, one hand locked tight around the spray.
The man matched her speed, unhurried but relentless. He stayed beyond reach, out of the safety zone, the length of a thrown stone. Rushing through another alleyway, less than two blocks from her apartment building, she hung a toe. In the blink of an eye, Tammy hit the bricks knees-first.
The impact shot a cold lance up both shins. The alley stank of trash, juice, and cigarettes. Grease from an overloaded dumpster slicked the pavement. Her hands slapped down, white-knuckled, fingers scraping for grip, but he kept her pinned.
The nurse’s dress, now more gray than white, rode up her thighs. Through the sheer tights, Tammy felt the grit of the stones and the cold biting her skin. Her hair fell into her eyes, curls now wild, stuck with alley grit and the memory of his fingers.
Blocking half the alley’s width with his body, the plunderer towered above. He’d stalked her for blocks, silent but not hiding, and when he’d grabbed her, he did it like it was nothing.
Just business.
She tried to scramble back, but his hand landed on the back of her neck. Heavy. The weight of a cinderblock. He shoved her forward again, so she sprawled, knees bruised, forehead almost hitting the bricks.
She gasped. “Stop—”
He didn’t. He leaned down, crowding Tammy against the wall, his breath hot on her ear.
“Listen, bitch, you scream, you fucking cheap-ass whore, and I’ll make you regret it.”
His voice sounded wrong here. Too calm. Tammy’s head swam. Her own voice had vanished, replaced by the hammering of her pulse inside her ears.
She tried to twist free. His other hand found her shoulder and held her down. She tried again, but he squeezed hard, right above the collarbone. Pain flashed white and animal.
The city’s party sounds bled in from the far end of the alley. A synth baseline. Laughter. Someone yelling “Chug!” The living world, a stone’s throw away. Tammy wanted to scream, too, but the threat in his voice felt absolute. Instead, she clawed at the pavement, panting, dizzy with adrenaline.
“You know how long I watched you?” he said. His lips almost brushed Tammy’s ear, voice soft and even. “You walk like you’re untouchable. Little girl, all grown up.” He jerked her upright by the hair, forcing her to kneel. The skirt barely covered her. She felt the cold air against the back of her legs, the fabric ruined, the skin already marked by the pavement.
Trying to hit him, she reached back. Her nails caught on the sleeve, but he laughed. Laughed at her. The sound was almost kind.
Savoring the victory, he stepped around, moving at a snail’s pace. His coat swung open. Underneath: jeans, boots, nothing fancy. She kept her chin down, but he took a fistful of her curls and wrenched her head up. The roots screamed. Her scalp burned. She tried to bite his wrist, but he was ready—he smacked her across the jaw.
Not hard enough to break skin, but brutal sufficient to reset her world.
Between the shadow of his fist and the far-off light, her vision went blurry for a second. Lip split again, she tasted iron, old wound meeting new.
He bent over, mouth at her ear, his voice a low, patient drawl.
“Keep fighting me, bitch, and you make it better.”
The street party still rumbled, but she could see him now. The blue eyes, flat as water on a windless day. The makeup covered skin unmarked, almost delicate. He smiled and unzipped.
The truth hit her all at once: what would happen, what he’d do to her. The horror was not in the act but in the certainty. She looked at the alley mouth, fifty feet away, and knew no one would come.
Her breath came in little animal jerks.
“Good girl, stay put,” he said.
Off in the distance, a werewolf howled, and the assailant took her by the back of the neck, fingers digging in. With his other hand, he jerked his cock free, hard already, the tip glossy in the yellow alley light. Angry, long, massive, it threatened her.
“Open up,” he said, and when she shook her head, he pressed his thumb to her chin, popped her jaw wide, and shoved himself in.
Her cry choked off. The attacker filled her mouth in a single, violent motion, hips pinning her face. She gagged and tried to bite, but he had her locked, thumb pressing into her jaw hinge, cock buried to the root.
Behind him, a cheer went up from the main street. Someone sang a bar of “Thriller.” Tammy’s eyes blurred with tears, her vision streaked by the makeup running down her cheeks. When she tried to pull back, he followed, not letting her get air.
For the rest of this contest entry you need a
Registration + Paid Premier Membership
If you have an account, then please Log In
with a Free Account (Why register?)