On Halloween night, every phone in town lit up at once with a photo—your own house, taken from inside, while you were asleep.

No one could trace it, no number, no account—just the caption: “You looked so peaceful. Don’t wake up next time.”

By morning, seven families were found gutted in their beds, mirrors turned inward and screens shattered into their eyes.

The town tried to cancel Halloween the next year—but at sunset, children’s voices echoed through dead phones: “We never said you could stop.”

At 9:13 p.m., streetlights flickered to blood-red, and every door locked itself, even ones without locks.

Parents clawed at windows as they watched their children levitate, faces frozen in silent screams, mouths filled with ash.

Basement floors turned wet—like breathing flesh—and the smell of burnt teeth rose through the vents.

When the survivors tried to flee, they found the roads looping back endlessly to their own driveways, where someone always stood in their costume, waving.

The last thing anyone sees before they vanish is their own face, grinning, reflected in a screen that isn’t on.

They say Halloween comes back every year—but now, so do the ones it took.