Anaise Donbey had lost count of door bell rings. Her candy bowl was running low, and soon she would have to shut off the house lights and lock the doors, to ward off further trick or treaters. Still, she was glowing from the evening’s visitors, young and lively and with plenty of imagination. There were fewer Intellectual Property costumes and more do it yourself ones - from imaginations blissful to intense - this year. The Fairy God Frog had been a delight, while the Snot Ghoul had given her quite a shock. A handful of bulk chocolates turned all away with grateful words.

The price of chocolate had skyrocketed recently, but Anaise adored the stuff and nearly worshipped Halloween. Hers might have been the only house in her lower middle-class neighborhood, that was handing out chocolate treats, although buying an abundance of them had put a big dent in her meager savings.

When she opened the door this time, she was struck dumb, eyes straining to believe what they were seeing.

“Hey, Trick or Treat, Lady - dis man need sum lov’n handfuls!” The voice was far from a child’s. It was like a Bronx accent as voiced on South Park, raspy and full of sneering.

The short figure before her displayed a makeshift collection of accessories that technically shared a theme, but it was nothing a child should ever wear! His face was covered by a flat photograph mask of a popular, gangsta rapper. His torso wore a black muscle chest, and his crotch sported a huge, black dildo springing from a harness.

“What the-” She didn’t have words that could accurately comprehend the 4’ 11” person on her front porch.

“You deaf, lady? I said, dis man need sum lov’n handfuls!” the tiny figure on the porch rasped, his voice scraping like sandpaper on a chalkboard. He shifted his weight, the oversized dildo bouncing comically against the cheap-looking black vinyl of the muscle chest. It was a ridiculous sight, a grotesque parody of sexuality shrunk down to the scale of a pubescent boy.

Anaise stared, her brain struggling to process the absurdity and the wrongness of his costume. Her candy bowl, a plastic pumpkin with a smiling jack-o-lantern face, suddenly felt inadequate in case she had to defend herself.

“That’s- that’s quite the costume,” she finally managed. “Where are your parents?”

The figure snorted, a harsh, humorless sound. “Parents ain’t my problem, sweetheart. My concern is gettin’ my treat.” He leaned forward slightly, the photo-mask of the rapper seeming to leer at her. “You gonna give it to me, or I gotta come in and get it myself?”

Anaise’s grip on the candy bowl tightened. She was a good judge of character, of intent, and the intent radiating from this person - was not good. He was sharp, focused, and hungry in a way that had nothing to do with sweets.

“I think you should go,” she said, her voice firmer. “That isn’t appropriate for Halloween.”

“Not ‘propriate?” The figure laughed, a high-pitched cackle that didn’t fit the macho image of the mask. “Everything’s ‘propriate on Halloween, lady. It’s the one night you can be anyone, do anything.” He stepped off of the welcome mat, its faded orange and black colors looking sallow under the porch light. “So, what’s it gonna be? The easy way, or the hard way?”

Anaise didn’t move, except for her blinking eyelids.

“Okay, so I’ll make it easy for you. Not like you’ll see any more kids tonight, after me.” He grunted a laugh. His voice was deep, but now that he’d spoken enough, the rasping was only a sign of cracking due to puberty. This child already had a base register but inconsistently.

Anaise remained stunned while she processed her deductions. The boy however swept past her, grabbing the candy bowl. “Dis all you gots?” He quickly unwrapped a chocolate with one hand and stuffed it behind his mask. Wet chewing ensued.

“Just take the candy and go.” She pointed out the door.

The boy ignored her. He grabbed another piece of candy, a dark taffy this time, and unwrapped it with a deft flick of his thumb. He didn’t put it behind the mask, though. Instead, he held it up, the black candy shimmering strange in the entry hall’s red light. She had swapped the regular bulb for something more Halloween.

“Look at dis.” He brought the piece of candy to the front of his pants, right where the dildo bulged obscenely below the black vinyl muscle chest. With a little grunt, he pushed the sticky taffy against the synthetic rubber. “A little snack for later.”

Anaise’s stomach turned. She felt a cold knot of dread tighten in her gut. This wasn’t just some kid acting out. This was something else entirely - something very concerning.

“Please,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Just leave.”

“Leave?” The boy laughed, a wet, snuffling sound. “Why should I? You got a whole house full of treats. And I’m a good boy.” He patted the dildo. “I come right to the door, I say ‘trick or treat’ - you’re supposed to give me a treat.”

He walked to the living room, forcing her to retreat further into her own home, ahead of him. He looked up at her, the flat photograph of the rapper’s face giving no hint of what he was thinking, but his short body moved like a predator.

“You look real scared. Like a little bunny rabbit.” He took another piece of candy from the bowl. A chocolate bar. He didn’t unwrap it. Instead, he just held it up to her face. “Maybe you’re not a rabbit. Maybe you’re the witch.” He tucked the chocolate in the one pocket of her apron. She had dressed like Martha Stewart. “You gonna give me my treat, or are you gonna cast a spell on me?”

“Get out,” she repeated, her voice stronger this time. “Now.”

The mask’s bright toothy smile did not change. A wide, unsettling grin that completed the menacing persona he was trying to project. “Oh, and if you’re wondering about my costume, I’m a BBC serial rapist!” He low voice was glee filled.

“I’m calling the police.” From her apron pocket, she pulled out her phone which was now covered in half melted chocolate. It wouldn’t accept touch commands!

The boy let out a sharp bark of laughter, the sound somehow closing the door in the entryway. He didn’t seem concerned in the slightest. Instead, he took deliberates steps forcing her back until her shoulder blades pressed against the cool plaster of the hallway wall.

“Call ‘em, lady,” he taunted, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp. “Tell ‘em what? That I’m a BBC serial rapist for Halloween? They’ll laugh you right out of the station.”

He reached out a small hand and, with a surprising gentleness that was somehow more terrifying than aggression, peeled the phone from her chocolate-slicked fingers. She made a half-hearted attempt to snatch it back, but he was too quick. He examined the smeared screen with a critical eye.

Anaise shifted along the wall into the living room.

“Damn,” he muttered. “This thing’s a mess. All sticky and shit.” He didn’t even try to unlock it. Instead, he casually tossed it over his shoulder. It hit the hardwood floor of the living room with a sharp clatter, followed by the sound of the screen cracking.

“There,” he said, as if he’d just done her a favor. “Now you don’t have to worry about cops or friends. You can focus on me.” His gaze drifted down from her face, his dark eyes deep behind the mask, but his intent was unmistakable as he looked at her. “You’re a witch, right? You should know how to handle a real monster.”

The black vinyl of his muscle chest creaked slightly as he advanced once more upon her. He raised the candy bowl again, this time pulling out a chocolate orange slice. He held it up to the side of her, as if presenting an offering to some invisible audience.

“You want some candy, baby? Or you want something else?” The huge black dildo wagged suggestively.

“My phone!” Anaise shrieked! She raced across the living room. But when she bent down to retrieve the broken device, small hands pushed her butt and she crashed forward onto the couch.

“Time to give you a trick!” The boy giggled.

She landed hard, the breath knocked from her lungs as the couch cushions caught her. The boy was already on her, a small but surprisingly heavy weight pinning her down. She could smell him now - the sharp, chemical tang of the black vinyl, the faint sweetness of the chocolates he’d defiled. Underneath those odors was the sourness of a child who hadn’t bathed in days.

“Get off me!” she gasped, pushing against his shoulders.

He was strong for his size, but she was weakened by confusion. He grabbed her wrists with chocolate stained hands and slapped them against the back of the couch, one on each side of her head. His flat, impassive mask of the rapper leered over her.

“Shut up, you witch,” he hissed a low, dangerous growl. “You think I’m playin’? I ain’t.”

He shifted his weight, grinding the front of his ridiculous costume against her hip. The hard rubber of the dildo dug into her, a cold, obscene pressure. She could feel the muscles in his thighs tensing. He was going to do something awful. Yet she still couldn’t believe this was actually happening.