The Last House down the Lane

Every Halloween, when the moon hung pale over Ashwood Lane, children whispered about the rotting house at the very end. The story passed from older kids to younger ones like a dark inheritance. They said a woman lived there, her face hidden behind a cracked porcelain mask, offering candy no one should take. Some claimed she used to be the town’s beloved candy maker before tragedy twisted her heart. Others insisted she was never human at all. No matter the version, every tale ended the same way—kids who entered never came back, except sometimes… in pieces.

That year, four friends—Tyler, Mia, Jonah, and Claire—decided to end the rumors. They were thirteen, too old for costumes but too young to resist a dare. Their neighborhood buzzed with laughter and distant screams, but Ashwood Lane felt like another world. The streetlights here flickered weakly, as if afraid to shine. The house loomed ahead, its roof sagging, boards nailed crooked across windows like jagged teeth. “We knock, we prove it’s fake,” Tyler said, clutching his candy bag. His voice shook, but pride hardened it. None of them noticed the way the wind died as they stepped onto the cracked walkway.

The closer they came, the colder the air grew, biting through their thin hoodies. Leaves that rustled moments before now lay silent and still. A rusted gate blocked the path, but when Jonah leaned against it, the hinges squealed and swung open on their own. “That’s not creepy at all,” Claire muttered. The porch stretched before them, wood warped and slick from years of neglect. At the door’s center hung a brass knocker shaped like a grinning jack-o’-lantern. Its eyes glowed faintly, though no candle burned within. Tyler raised his hand, hesitating as the others held their breath.

Three sharp raps echoed far louder than they should have, reverberating down the lane. For a long, trembling moment, nothing happened. Then came the creak of ancient hinges as the door eased open an inch at a time. Inside, flickering candlelight revealed a hallway lined with rotting wallpaper. A scent of roses drifted out, sweet enough to sting their noses—but beneath it lingered something foul, like spoiled meat. “Hello?” Tyler called, his voice cracking. A soft, singsong whisper floated back: *Come inside, little ones. Treats await.* The door swung wider, revealing shadowed walls that seemed to lean closer.

The whispering voice was almost tender, like a lullaby half-remembered from childhood. Mia clutched Jonah’s sleeve. “It’s just a recording,” she whispered, though her eyes darted nervously. Claire shook her head. The words had weight, vibrating through the floorboards and into their bones. “Don’t,” Jonah said, stepping back. But Tyler, always the bravest, or maybe the most foolish, took a single step forward. “Let’s just peek inside,” he insisted, forcing a grin. “We came all this way.” The others shifted uneasily, feet rooted in place. The scent of roses thickened, cloying, almost intoxicating. From the darkness came a soft giggle.

Before anyone could stop him, Tyler crossed the threshold. The wooden floor groaned under his sneakers as if alive. “See?” he called, glancing back with a shaky smile. “Just an old house.” The door behind him slammed shut with a deafening crack. Mia screamed. Jonah lunged forward, but the door refused to budge. From inside came the sharp scrape of something heavy dragging across wood. Tyler’s voice rose in panic. “Hey! Open the door!” Then—silence. No footsteps, no breath. Only the flickering of unseen candles and the faint hum of a melody none of them recognized.

Seconds stretched like hours. Then came a scream—high, ragged, and abruptly cut off. Mia pounded on the door until her fists ached. “Tyler!” she cried. Claire’s face drained of color. “We have to get help!” But when Jonah turned toward the street, the neighborhood had vanished. Instead of houses and familiar lawns, only endless fog stretched in every direction. Streetlights flickered and died. The world outside the porch no longer belonged to them. Trapped between a door that wouldn’t open and a void that wouldn’t end, the three clung to each other as the candlelight inside pulsed like a heartbeat.

The door suddenly creaked open, slow and deliberate. Tyler stood framed in the doorway. Relief flooded Mia’s chest—until she saw his face. His smile stretched unnaturally wide, skin pale as candle wax. His eyes, once bright hazel, were now dark voids reflecting nothing. In his hand hung a candy bag, its paper bottom soaked and dripping something thick and red. “Your turn,” he whispered, voice sweet and hollow. He extended the bag toward them, a single wrapped piece of candy resting on top, gleaming like a jewel. The scent of roses swelled, choking the night. Jonah stepped back, shaking violently.

Claire stared at the candy. The wrapper shimmered in the dim light, its colors shifting like oil on water. A strange hunger stirred inside her, sharp and immediate. Her stomach growled despite the terror gripping her chest. She wanted—no, needed—to taste it. Mia grabbed her arm, yanking her back. “Don’t!” she hissed. Tyler tilted his head, masklike face twitching. “It’s sweet,” he cooed, “just one bite and you’ll never be afraid again.” Behind him, shadows slithered along the hallway walls, forming shapes that almost looked like children. Their eyes glowed faintly, watching, waiting for a decision that would seal fates.

Jonah pulled Claire and Mia toward the porch steps. “Run,” he barked. But the moment their sneakers hit the first step, the boards beneath them warped like soft clay. The porch stretched forward, elongating into an endless hallway of rotting wood. Each step they took only carried them deeper inside. Behind them, Tyler’s voice followed, lilting and taunting. “Don’t leave,” he sang. “It’s rude to refuse a gift.” Candles flared brighter, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like marionettes. The scent of roses burned their throats. Claire stumbled, nearly dropping her candy bag, as the house groaned in hungry anticipation.

The warped porch finally spat them into a hallway lined with cracked mirrors. Each reflection showed a different nightmare: Claire’s face melted like wax, Mia’s eyes bled black tears, Jonah’s mouth stretched wide in a silent scream. Tyler’s reflection lingered behind them in every panel, grinning, even though he wasn’t there. Whispered voices filled the air—children crying, giggling, begging. Mia covered her ears, but the sound drilled into her skull. The mirrors trembled, glass bending inward as if something pressed against it from the other side. Faint porcelain masks floated in each reflection, smiling wider with every heartbeat.

From the far end of the hall, a figure emerged. She glided silently, long black dress brushing the floor like trailing smoke. Her face was hidden behind a cracked porcelain mask, the fissures spiderwebbing across pale cheeks. In her gloved hands, she carried a silver tray overflowing with candies wrapped in shimmering foil. “Hungry?” she asked softly, her voice the same tender whisper they’d heard at the door. Her head tilted, mask cracking audibly as she moved. “One taste and fear will leave you forever.” The children froze, their reflections writhing behind the glass. The air smelled of roses and decay.

The woman stepped closer, tray gleaming. Jonah’s breath came in ragged gasps. “We…we just want to leave,” he stammered. The masked woman tilted her head. “Leave?” she repeated, as if tasting the word. “But you knocked. Knocking is consent.” The hallway darkened, candles guttering. Shadows crept up the walls, forming child-sized silhouettes that whispered in unison: *Stay.* Claire felt an invisible pull toward the candy, her mind fogging. Mia slapped her hand away, desperate to keep her grounded. “Don’t eat it,” Mia hissed, but her own voice sounded far away, as though she were already sinking beneath dark water.

The woman crouched, lowering the tray. “Take just one,” she murmured. “I only keep what’s freely given.” Behind her, Tyler appeared, standing unnaturally still. “It’s fine,” he said, smiling too wide. “It doesn’t hurt.” His candy bag dripped steadily, leaving dark stains on the warped wood. Jonah clenched his fists. “No,” he shouted, though it sounded weak. The woman’s cracked mask split slightly, revealing teeth too sharp to belong to anything human. “Then you give yourselves,” she said. “Or you give another.” The mirrors trembled violently, reflections screaming silently as the hallway tilted like a ship sinking into black water.

A sudden gust extinguished the candles. Darkness swallowed them whole. Mia felt cold hands brush her shoulders, then nothing. When light returned, she stood alone on the sidewalk outside the house. The street was quiet, normal, as if nothing had happened. Claire and Jonah were gone. Tyler was nowhere to be seen. The house looked unchanged except for three new boards nailed across the door, each smeared with something dark. Neighbors’ porch lights flickered in the distance, children’s laughter carrying on the wind. Mia clutched her empty candy bag, her ears still ringing with the woman’s final whisper “Next year.”

The next morning, curious neighbors found the house exactly as it had always been—silent, boarded, rotting. But sharp-eyed children noticed something new. Fresh boards sealed the door, each etched with faint handprints the size of children’s palms. When asked, Mia refused to speak, though sometimes classmates caught her staring toward Ashwood Lane, eyes distant, as if listening for a voice only she could hear. On Halloween night, the story spreads again: knock on the last house and win a lifetime of sweets. Yet everyone knows the truth. The house hungers still, waiting for the next brave soul to knock.