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The slasher of a roller rink horror franchise, tired and menacing on his eleventh sequel, explains that he keeps coming back because you keep buying tickets.

At a Halloween warehouse party a werewolf in plain jeans turns on the dance floor one kick drum at a time while everyone screams that it's a great costume.

Something that can't cross a doorway until it's invited walks the block on Halloween, the one night every door opens for a stranger, and walks a lost little girl home to her mother.

On Halloween, the dead sergeant of a regiment paved under a subdivision calls roll, finds one man missing, and marches the cul-de-sac to the builder's door to fill the line.

Before dawn on Halloween, a deer hunter in a tree stand hears something in the treeline singing in his wife's voice while she texts him from home six miles away.

A holler's sin eater has eaten forty-one years of the town's sins off its dead, and when nobody comes to eat his on All Hallows, he walks every sin back to the door it came from.

The only two bedsheet ghosts at a Sheffield Halloween rave dance all night without ever seeing each other's faces.

Her ex begs her on Halloween to lift the curse wrecking his life, but she didn't lift a finger, she just stopped doing everything for him.

At three thirty three a ghost rides bike thirteen in a Milan gym built inside an old disco, and the night clerk rides beside her.

His Detroit roommate never eats and never shows up in the mirror, but the rent is always on time.

A trucker on a Halloween back road keeps flashing his high beams to keep the hooded man in a stranger's back seat down, while she calls the law on him.

An eighteen-hundreds grave robber always cuts the safety-bell string before he digs, until a bell rings on the unmarked grave where he buried his partner alive.

A father who turns when the full moon lands on Halloween teaches his nine-year-old in a wolf mask to lock the cellar and never trust the calm voice that says it's all clear.

A scare actor at a haunted mill counts twelve on payroll and thirteen in the fog, then climbs to the burned third floor where the real staff never clocked out.

The scarecrow a farm town burns every October has heard every secret from the pole, and this year he climbs down for the grown ones.

A fifteen-year-old takes the double-dog dare into the house at the end of Ashby and finds the tea still steaming and his mama's lullaby upstairs.

A pop-up Halloween mask-maker whose one unsold mask never fit anyone finally puts it on at closing time, locks the shop from the outside, and walks into the night wearing second skin.

Something under the porch narrates Halloween night while kids leave candy and parents kill the light, patient longer than both, winning by waiting instead of chasing.

A real music only gatekeeper salts his door, hangs a cross, and calls in the purists to cast the song out like a haunting, until his own 3 a.m. replays give him away, because if it ain't real, why is he so scared of it and why does he know every word.

The lone survivor of a lake house massacre hid in the crawlspace and listened to him walk, then buys the house twenty years later, learns every board by heart, and on Halloween night she is the one who walks slow.

A deadpan narrator walks through a crime boss's funeral naming all six pallbearers and what each one stole, the letters handed out at the grave expose every one of them, and the casket turns out to be full of river sand because the man in the gray hat telling the story is Ray himself.

The city itself narrates 3:15 a.m., the manhole steam, the bodega cat, the names on the bridge rail, then turns its streetlights, dogs, sparks and sirens on a man stalking a woman on the fourth floor, and by sunrise everyone thinks the night was calm.

Two Pittsburgh goths call in for concert tickets and win second prize, four August nights at a Miami Beach resort, where they suffer through foam parties, fishnet sunburns, and a waiter who keeps telling them to smile, until a thunderstorm clears the beach and they finally dance in the rain with eyeliner down to their elbows.

Six minutes in the Shroud and one more chest too many, so a looter dies with a full bag at zero, wakes at the Flame Altar in rags, crafts a wand from two Bones, and sprints back through the fog for his tombstone, only to spot another chest on the way out.

Deep in the Kindlewastes Hollow Halls, a survivor finds a page from an undead child remembering a mother's candles, a saffron-dyed orange blanket, and sweetened chamomile, and having woken alone too, reads it out loud, lights every corner, and promises to come back for the child.

A $2 tape with a 1994 ghost on it. He does the taxes now.