At Mike Mertz’s pre-game barbecue, everyone is still talking about Madame Revyenka and the Halloween party at Dale and Evelyn Swinwood’s two weeks ago.

You’re with the husbands, off by yourselves, and they all agree she was totally hot. The wives, off in their own group, all agree she was a total skank.

Like meerkats at a watering hole, the guys take turns bobbing up to check that the wives are still ignoring you all.

She was—according to these guys—super sexy, hungry for cock, and ready to fuck anything that moved. Every one of them swore she hit on them, not caring if their wives knew or not.

“Thought she was going to strip off all her clothes and make me jump into the hot tub with her.”

“That’s nothing. She got me alone out by the lawn ornaments and was ready to give me a blow job right then and there.”

“Shit—she cornered me upstairs, hiked her skirt, spread her cheeks, wanting me to take her in the ass... in the ass.”

These guys—none of whom are under sixty—are all trying to top each other with how they almost had to fuck Madame Revyenka, and would have, if it weren’t for their wives being there.

You’d laugh out loud, if you weren’t the new guy on the block and less than half their age.

The way these guys are telling it, Madame Revyenka would have sucked or fucked every guy there.

Every guy but you. Because as far as they know, you couldn’t be there.

They all tell you how you really missed out.

Madame Revyenka showed up, claiming you’d invited her along as your date. But when you didn’t show up, she had to ‘make do.’ Which sure was lucky for them, right? This gets you an elbow in the ribs—the old guy’s universal gesture for ‘just kidding.’ These guys are really a bunch of assholes.

They grill you about who she was—a girl from work? A girl from around here? One of those hot checkers from the Food Lion?

You shrug, saying she wasn’t anybody you knew. You hadn’t invited anyone.

So the guys go on, laughing at how you sure missed out.

You keep your eyes on your drink, agreeing that she must have been something.

“No offense to the ladies,” one guy says as everybody throws another quick look over at the wives, “she was hot, like nothing from around here.” Again he checks to see if any of the wives are paying attention, then he leans in, eyes bright. “Nothing!”

What everyone does agree on is that Madame Revyenka wasn’t her real name, obviously, and no one has been able to figure out who she was underneath the blood reds lips, gleaming fangs, and those fantastic knockers. Nor have they been able to figure out what actually happened to her after she left the party around midnight under a rare full moon.

What the wives don’t know is that when Madame Revyenka left the party alone, a few of the husbands chased after her, lustrous in the moonlight as she crossed the meadow at the edge of the neighborhood, heading for the stand of trees that banded the meadow. She disappeared into the woods, and they followed her in, but lost sight of her. Gone. No sign.

But it’s Doug who has a photograph that hints at what might have happened to her after she disappeared into the woods.

You’ve only been to a couple of these get-togethers since moving here earlier in the year, but Doug always shows up with pictures to pass around.

Doug has a trail camera set up in those same woods, trying to catch evidence of mysterious creatures who supposedly come out of the woods when a full moon aligns with Halloween. Creatures who sneak out to raid trash cans, chase women, and eat small pets before disappearing with the dawn. Everyone considers it so much bullshit but Doug swears it’s true, getting the story from a couple of old timers he met fishing.

Normally, you wouldn’t care about seeing any of Doug’s pictures. Most of them turn out to be nudies, images of teenagers from town running naked through the woods, stopping for a blow job, unaware of the camera catching it all on film. Sometimes it’s couples from the houses by the lake on the other side of the trees, probably cheating on their spouses thinking they’re safe by fucking in a secluded part of the woods at the edge of their own subdivision. Everyone’s convinced that’s why he really does it. And blames it on some kind of local Big Foot in case his wife catches him with the stash of naked girl photos.

Doug is considered a bit of a boob.

Any other time, you’d politely glance at his pictures, smile and pass them on. But this time it’s important for you to see what Doug managed to catch on film from that night. So you study it closely when they hand it to you.

What you’re looking at is an infrared image from a night vision camera. A grayscale picture of what looks like a hairless Sasquatch carrying someone over its shoulder as if toting a rolled-up carpet. Her head’s in a sack, but all the guys assure you that dress, that ass, and those pink slippers belong to Madame Revyenka. Absolutely. No doubt.

“Oh,” is all you can say. But you do know that it’s her in the picture. Of course, you can’t say that. You’d convinced everyone that you weren’t able to be at the party. And you also know that the creature in the picture is Shorty, the smallest of the orcs that nabbed her. Nabbed you. Because you are—or were—Madame Revyenka.

You were new to the neighborhood, living in the house your great aunt Onesta left to you, one of the smallest and oldest houses in the subdivision. You’d planned to stay only long enough to sort through her stuff and then sell the house.

You were much younger than the rest of the people around here. Close knit, years of living in the same neighborhood, they were a bit distant, but not unfriendly. They took their time warming up. All of them were retired, or empty-nesters still working, or widows with money, and, being separated from the rest of the development by the trees and the meadow, the whole neighborhood had a reputation for wife swapping and sex parties.

At least that’s what the men all implied when you were checking the place out. Which you considered to be highly unlikely after getting a good look at your neighbors. They didn’t seem like sturdy bacchanalians to you. A lot of wishful thinkers, was your guess.

But they talked a good game. Kevin and Mike were the worst—taking you aside, bragging on who they’d hit on, who was easy pickings, who’d let them in the back door, wink wink, how a young guy like you could have your pick. Even offering up their own wives—if—if—you’d let them take pictures, so they could watch the look on their wives’ faces as they got a long, hot log up the ass. Then laughing, like they weren’t serious, but you figured they desperately wanted to be.

When Halloween rolled around, the Swinwoods sent out invitations for their annual holiday bash, and they included you, though you’d never exchanged more than a few words with either of them.

Word was that the Swinwoods were great for throwing parties, especially at Halloween. An all-nighter that everyone was expected to attend until the sun came up.

They put out lots of liquor and fun food for nibbling. For Halloween, costumes were expected. Magnums of champagne for the best, the most creative, or, of course, the sexiest.

Word was how the women always seemed to be the most inventive with their costume ideas. The husbands—not so much. Mostly half-assed, paying more attention to drinking and trying to get laid.

You decided to prank all the horny bastards and maybe give their wives a good laugh. You’d go as a sexy lady vampire. Mysterious, a little bit outrageous, watch the guys drool all over you, then whip off your wig at the end of the night and give the wives a good laugh at their husbands getting all worked up over a guy in a dress.

To keep people guessing, the lady vampire would show up, alone, all mysterious, asking where you were, as if ‘she’ was your date, and ‘you’ failed to show up, because you were working late or something. Then reveal that she was a he that whole time. Maybe win for most creative and sexiest costume and take home a couple of those magnums of champagne.

Bit of a laugh for Halloween. Aunt Onesta would’ve loved it.

You’d assembled the costume over the days leading up to the party. The biggest bra you could find at the thrift store—ignoring the looks you got from the church lady at the checkout counter. Filled out with baggies of birdseed, it gave you a really buxom bosom, great movement, and a realistic feel.

You pulled a lacy, long-sleeved night gown from Aunt Onesta’s closet, floor-length, slightly see-through, with a high, choker-type collar. Definitely the kind of thing that’d give Dracula a hard-on.

You tried wearing a flashy little g-string underneath, but your balls kept spilling out, so you went with a body builder’s posing strap. You’d have preferred the g-string, but the strap made you feel sexy the way it cupped your balls in the soft, spandex, barely-there pouch, and the way the strap split the crack of your ass.

You got out a pair of heels, black stilettos with red trim, but a few minutes walking around in those, you decided there was no way you could go all evening in those. So you went with some pink slippers.

You finished off the costume with elbow-length opera gloves to hide your not-so-ladylike hands.

The night of the party you got busy putting on the makeup, eyelashes, and lip liner. The fangs took a couple of tries with the dental adhesive, but gave you a killer smile. You had to practice a bit so you didn’t keep biting yourself.

Satisfied with the look—sooooo cool—you slipped into the night gown, and topped it off with a wild, jet-black wig, the center piled up into a beehive with long locks flowing down onto your shoulders, made you look like you were freshly risen from your grave—but seductive and sinister.

Checking yourself in the mirror, it was an amazing transformation. If you’d been too tall or too broad-shouldered, it would be a joke. Too small or too thin and you’d look like one of those flimsy plastic yard ornaments.

You were stunning—if you did say so yourself. Which you did, curtsying to your reflection in the mirror.

A red, ankle-length, hooded cape finished off the look. You didn’t want to spoil the effect by showing up in a parka.

You had to walk to the Swinwoods’ house, not wanting to give yourself away by showing up in the muscle car you’d driven since college.

There were very few lights, a thick stand of trees, and then an unpaved service road. Follow it to the right and you were there. Good thing you skipped the stilettos. You’d catch a ride with one of the guys at the end of the night.

Still, it was a bit of a hike. But that first entrance was so worth it.

You floated through the door, smiling at Mrs Swinwood. Of course she didn’t recognize you when she greeted you, stumbling for a name. She leaned in expecting you to share your secret. Instead, you whispered “Madame Revyenka,” your Bela Lugosi accent dripping from your lips. You’d forgotten you might need a name to share with your hostess so she knew who was in her house. You pulled that out of the crisp October air.