The blade spoke in silence.
Not with words, but with something older. Something deeper.
It hummed through my bones the moment I wrapped my fingers around it—the Carver's knife, wedged deep into the altar where Nathan had been tied. The wood shuddered under my touch, as if recognizing me.
The air around me grew still. Even the wind stopped rustling the dying leaves.
A soundless voice filled my head:
> "To carve is to claim."
---
I yanked the blade free.
It was heavier than it should've been, like it was carrying the weight of centuries. The handle was made of what looked like polished bone, and the blade itself shimmered faintly in the moonlight—not like steel, but ivory, stained with something brownish-red at the edge.
The moment it left the altar, the pumpkins dimmed.
Something had changed.
Something had awoken.
I turned to leave—and nearly screamed.
The scarecrow stood at the edge of the woods.
Mr. Gourd.
Only now, he wasn't slumped or still.
He was watching me.
His jack-o'-lantern head burned from within, eyes glowing with the same fire I saw in the Carver's knife. He was dressed in rotting flannel, his limbs unnaturally long, stitched together with wire. And in one hand, he held something glistening and wet.
A mask.
Made of skin.
---
I ran.
Through the trees. Down the path. Back to Aunt Miriam's house, barely able to breathe, clutching the knife so tightly my knuckles went white.
The house was dark when I arrived.
Too dark.
I opened the door slowly.
"Miriam?" I whispered.
No answer.
I stepped inside and nearly gagged.
The smell hit me first. Rotten flesh, blood, pumpkin guts, and something chemical—bleach? The floor creaked under my shoes as I moved deeper into the house.
The candle on the kitchen table was still burning. Next to it sat a bowl filled with what I first thought were squash guts.
Then I looked closer.
Teeth.
Tiny, perfect baby teeth. A dozen of them. Arranged like candy in the bowl.
---
I turned and found Miriam in the hallway.
She stood facing the mirror, eyes closed, whispering something under her breath. In one hand she held a small pumpkin, in the other a carving knife, slick with blood.
"Miriam—what the hell are you doing?"
She turned, slowly.
The blood on her apron wasn't hers.
"You've brought it home," she whispered. "You shouldn't have touched his blade."
"I had no choice."
"You always have a choice. That's what the pact is built on. The town feeds him so we don't become him."
I raised the blade. "How long have you been helping them?"
Her eyes filled with tears.
"I was the chosen. In 1976. My brother saved me. Took my place. The Carver gave me mercy for what he called a gift of blood. That's the only reason I'm still alive."
"So you just stood by and let them do it again. Every year."
"I didn't stand by," she said softly. "I carved."
---
I backed away.
She didn't chase me.
She just watched, the knife dangling from her fingers like it had no more use.
"I tried to hide Nathan," she said. "But the Hollow remembers. It always remembers."
---
Upstairs, Nathan was awake.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands. The light from the hallway cast long shadows across his face, and for a moment I saw something in his eyes that wasn't him.
He looked at the blade in my hands.
"Is that his?"
I nodded.
He reached out, fingers trembling.
"I've seen it. In my dreams. I know how it feels. Like it wants you to cut open the world."
I knelt in front of him. "We're getting out of here."
"We can't."
"We have to."
He looked down. "I hear him, Chloe. He's not sleeping anymore."
---
That night, I took the knife and sat by the window, watching the town flicker in the distance with its Halloween lights and death rituals. I tried to come up with a plan—any plan—but every road led to the same truth:
The town wouldn't let us leave.
The Carver had marked Nathan.
And now, he was whispering to me too.
---
At midnight, the clock tower struck once.
Then twice.
I stood up.
Nathan was still asleep.
But not peacefully.
He twitched, moaned, whispered words I didn't understand. I sat beside him and held his hand. And then…
He screamed.
---
I turned on the light—and saw it.
A new mask.
Hanging from the ceiling fan, gently spinning.
It was made of stitched-together flesh. Pale, hair still clinging to parts of it. The eye sockets were empty, dark and wet.
It was me.
My face.
---
Nathan gasped awake, eyes wide.
"It's coming," he whispered. "Tonight."
I pulled him close.
"Then we fight."
---
Downstairs, I gathered what I could: salt, matches, old jars of oil from the cellar. I didn't know what worked against a Halloween demon, but I had no time to be rational.
I slashed a line across every doorway with the Carver's blade. I marked pumpkins with crosses. I set the attic door on fire.
And then I waited.
The wind picked up.
The windows shook.
And somewhere, far off in the night, a single bell rang.
---
DONG.
---
I opened the door.
And saw the mask of flesh waiting on the porch.
Sitting on a scarecrow body.
Wearing my clothes.
The eyes inside it blinked.
And then the mask whispered:
> "One must always carve."