31 Frights of October

Draped in Shadows

The night air clung to the town like a heavy curtain, each breath hanging in the dark, unmoving as though the world itself had forgotten to exhale. Lilac Court was unusually still. No children played in the streets, no faint murmurs of laughter or television buzzed behind closed doors. The autumn air was crisp, but there was no breeze to stir the leaves that had fallen in fiery piles along the sidewalks. In the heart of this quiet street, Emma Warren stood on the front porch of her new home, staring at the weathered frame with a frown.

The house was older than she'd realized when she first bought it. Victorian, the realtor had said, with all the grace and charm of an era long gone. But as Emma now stood in its shadow, she felt its presence more than its beauty—a towering silhouette against the pale moonlight, casting long, narrow shadows like skeletal fingers across the lawn. Her gaze wandered up to the windows, black and vacant, staring down as though the house were watching her in return.

She exhaled slowly, gripping the bags of decorations in her hands a little tighter. The neighborhood had whispered about the old house, but she'd dismissed the stories as just that—whispers, rumors. Every town had them, and old houses always seemed to attract ghost stories like flies to honey. But now, standing before its looming figure, Emma couldn't shake the sense of being watched.

It was late. The clock on her phone blinked 11:45, but she wasn't ready to give in to the fatigue gnawing at the edges of her mind. Tomorrow was the block's annual decorating contest, and she wasn't about to be the new girl who didn't try. She dropped her bags onto the porch and dug out the string of orange and purple lights she'd brought. As she moved around the porch, looping them through the railing, her steps echoed against the wooden boards, sounding unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence. The air was thick with something unnameable, like a distant memory she couldn't quite place.

She glanced back at the house, shivering despite herself.

It's just a house, she thought firmly, and continued stringing the lights.

The wind chose that moment to stir, sharp and sudden, rustling the dead leaves that had gathered at the base of the porch. Emma froze, her breath catching in her throat. She could've sworn she'd heard something in the rustling—whispers, soft and indistinct, like voices carried on the wind. She turned slowly, half-expecting to see someone standing behind her, but the street was empty. Only the pale moonlight bathed the deserted sidewalk.

Shaking her head, she forced herself to keep working, her fingers moving faster now. She tied the last of the lights around the porch and stepped back to admire her handiwork, her heart still pounding in her chest. The house was still dark, looming behind her like a shadow she couldn't escape, but the lights added a small touch of life—if only for a moment.

Emma grabbed the next decoration from her bag—a wreath of twisted branches and faux cobwebs—and hung it on the door. As she did, her hand brushed against the cold metal of the doorknob, and she felt it shudder beneath her fingers, as though someone had tried to turn it from the other side.

She jumped back, eyes wide, staring at the door.

No one was there.

She swallowed hard, her pulse racing. It was an old house, she reminded herself. Old houses creaked and shifted. There was nothing to be afraid of. She was just letting the stories get to her.

Still, as she turned to grab the next decoration—a pair of plastic skeletons—she couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. The air was too still, too quiet. The shadows seemed to stretch a little too far, as though the darkness was reaching for her, trying to pull her in.

Stop it, she told herself. You're being ridiculous.

But the feeling wouldn't leave.

She had just finished positioning the skeletons on either side of the porch when the door behind her creaked open.