The Halloween Decorations Were Fighting Back

The first thing to disappear was the witch.

Not a real witch, obviously.

It was the inflatable one my wife had bought for Halloween.

She loved that thing.

Every evening, she switched on the little motor, and the witch would rise from the ground, wave her arms, and laugh whenever someone walked past.

Personally, I thought it looked ridiculous.

My wife thought it was “festive.”

So when I came home Tuesday evening and saw the empty patch of grass where the witch had been, I knew I was in trouble.

“Where's Mildred?” my wife shouted from the kitchen.

“I don't know.”

“You were supposed to bring her in during the storm.”

“I thought you brought her in.”

Silence.

Then:

“You thought wrong.”

I looked outside again.

The extension cord was still lying across the lawn.

The inflatable witch was gone.

Wednesday morning, we found her.

She was hanging from our maple tree.

Upside down.

Her plastic face was turned toward the house.

My wife stood on the porch with her hands on her hips.

“I don't find this funny.”

“I wasn't laughing.”

“You're smiling.”

“I smile when I'm nervous.”

“You're enjoying this.”

“I am not.”

I was.

A little.

We took Mildred down and placed her back in the yard.

That night, I checked the security camera.

At 2:13 a.m., the camera showed something moving across the lawn.

The image was grainy.

A small figure.

Very small.

It walked up to Mildred, stared at her for several seconds, then slowly dragged her toward the tree.

I paused the video.

“Look at this.”

My wife leaned over my shoulder.

“What is that?”

“I don't know.”

The figure appeared to be wearing a cloak.

Then it turned toward the camera.

Its face was completely white.

My wife stepped backward.

“Call the police.”

“For someone stealing an inflatable witch?”

“Yes.”

I didn't.

Instead, I checked the doors and windows twice before going to bed.

At 2:13 the following morning, the doorbell rang.

I woke up instantly.

My wife grabbed my arm.

“Did you hear that?”

“Yes.”

The doorbell rang again.

I walked downstairs.

“Don't open it,” my wife whispered.

“I wasn't planning to.”

I looked through the peephole.

Nobody was there.

I opened the door anyway.

I shouldn't have.

Something cold landed on my forehead.

I looked up.

A plastic skeleton was hanging from the porch roof.

Its skull was inches from my face.

Someone had moved it.

I slammed the door.

My wife screamed.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You screamed.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

I pointed toward the porch.

She looked through the glass.

The skeleton was gone.

“What?”

I opened the door again.

Nothing.

No skeleton.

No footprints.

No wind.

Just the porch light flickering above us.

Then something knocked from inside the house.

We both froze.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

The sound came from the living room.

“Did you lock the back door?” I whispered.

“Yes.”

Another knock.

This time from the kitchen.

My wife grabbed a broom.

“You're taking that?”

“It was the first weapon I saw.”

I grabbed the fireplace poker.

We moved through the house together.

The living room was empty.

The kitchen was empty.

Then we heard a noise from the dining room.

A faint scratching.

Like tiny fingernails moving across wood.

We entered slowly.

Our Halloween decorations were arranged around the table.

All of them.

The skeletons.

The pumpkins.

The plastic spiders.

The fake gravestones.

Even the witch.

They were sitting in chairs.

Facing us.

My wife whispered, “Oh my God.”

One of the skeletons raised its hand.

I nearly dropped the poker.

Then another skeleton moved.

Then another.

The witch stood up.

Her inflatable body slowly expanded.

Her head tilted toward us.

And she spoke.

“YOU.”

My wife screamed.

I screamed.

The skeletons laughed.

Not plastic rattling.

Not wind.

Actual laughter.

Deep, horrible laughter.

I pointed the poker at them.

“What do you want?”

The witch's painted smile widened.

“You put us outside.”

“What?”

“Every year.”

She pointed a long plastic finger at the window.

“You bring us out.”

The skeleton beside her stood.

“You dress us.”

Another skeleton stood.

“You photograph us.”

A pumpkin rolled across the table.

“And then…”

The witch leaned toward us.

“You forget us.”

I looked at my wife.

She looked at me.

Neither of us had an answer.

The witch raised both arms.

“We are tired of being decorations.”

The lights went out.

Something grabbed my ankle.

I swung the poker wildly.

A pumpkin flew across the room.

It exploded against the wall.

Green slime covered the wallpaper.

“Run!”

We ran toward the front door.

It wouldn't open.

My wife pulled the handle repeatedly.

“It's stuck!”

Behind us, dozens of plastic feet began scratching across the floor.

We turned.

The decorations were coming.

Skeletons crawled across the walls.

Plastic spiders covered the ceiling.

The inflatable witch floated toward us.

I had never been more terrified of cheap seasonal merchandise in my life.

Then I noticed something.

The front door wasn't locked.

It was being held shut.

By the skeleton.

I grabbed it by the rib cage and pulled.

It snapped in half.

The door flew open.

My wife and I ran into the street.

We didn't stop until we reached the neighbor's house.

Police arrived twenty minutes later.

They searched our house.

Nothing.

No moving decorations.

No witch.

No skeletons.

Nothing.

The officer looked at us sympathetically.

“Maybe you two should get some sleep.”

My wife glared at him.

“I know what I saw.”

“So do I,” I said.

We returned home just before sunrise.

Everything was exactly where we'd left it.

The Halloween decorations were back in their normal places.

The witch stood in the yard.

The skeletons hung from the trees.

The pumpkins sat beside the driveway.

For a moment, I thought perhaps we'd imagined everything.

Then I noticed something.

One of the pumpkins had a small crack across its mouth.

Inside was a folded piece of paper.

I opened it.

There were only six words.

WE'LL SEE YOU NEXT OCTOBER.

I laughed nervously.

My wife didn't.

She picked up the paper and turned it over.

There was something written on the back.

A shopping list.

I read it aloud.

“Batteries. Black paint. Rope.”

Then I saw the last item.

“New house.”

My wife looked at me.

“Maybe we should move.”

I nodded.

“Definitely.”

We started packing that afternoon.

We left every Halloween decoration behind.

Every single one.

We moved three towns away.

We didn't decorate for Halloween the following year.

Or the year after that.

We thought we'd escaped.

Then, last October, someone knocked on our front door.

Three slow knocks.

My wife and I stared at each other.

I already knew what was waiting outside.

I opened the door.

There was a small cardboard box on the porch.

No name.

No address.

Inside was the old inflatable witch.

A note was attached to her plastic hand.

You forgot us.

The witch suddenly inflated.

Her red eyes lit up.

And she laughed.

This time, we didn't scream.

We simply started packing.