In “My Neighbor Never Took His Halloween Decorations Down” Halloween horror story, a neighbor’s creepy Halloween display lingers long past October, transforming from festive to foreboding. What begins as quirky behavior—unchanging jack-o’-lanterns, shifting skeletons, and a cryptic warning—spirals into a horrifying discovery.
I
He put them up like the rest of us—amber lights, a skeleton propped on the porch, a witch swaying from a tree branch. But as the neighborhood moved past Halloween, he didn’t. November passed, then December. Snow blanketed the witch’s face, and the skeleton’s jaw gaped, as if caught in a mute wail.
Yet they remained.
I asked him about it once, early on. He answered through the closed door. “They’re not decorations,” he said. “They’re warnings.”
I laughed it off, assuming he was just eccentric, maybe solitary. But then I started noticing things. The jack-o’-lantern on his porch never rotted. No mildew, no collapse—just that same eerie grin, week after week. I could’ve sworn its expression subtly shifted, as if it were observing me.
One night in February, I caught movement in his yard. Something tall, gaunt, not human. From my window, I saw it linger under the streetlight, slowly tilting its head my way.
I blinked, and it was gone. Sleep didn’t come easily after that.
By March, his windows were sealed with black trash bags. He hadn’t been seen outside in months. Yet every night, the decorations shifted. The witch’s arms altered their pose. The skeleton moved from the porch to the roof, then dangled upside down from a branch, as if something had caught it.
Last week, at 3:00 AM, I saw him in his yard. His face was pale, blank. His lips moved, soundless. Behind him, the witch’s eyes gleamed, following me, I’d swear it.
I called the police again. This time, they agreed to check on him. They knocked. No answer.
They broke in.
Inside, they found the decorations. Not Halloween props—people. Fragments of people, sewn, molded, and wired into frames, worn like costumes, preserved. At the living room’s heart, a decayed jack-o’-lantern, blackened and throbbing, as if alive.
They never found him. Tonight, a skeleton appeared on my porch. It wasn’t there before. Its jaw is locked shut, but I swear it’s smirking at me.
II
I’ve patrolled this town for twenty years, seen the worst—overdoses, suicides, a few meth labs. Small-town decay. But that house on Mulberry Lane? It haunts me.
Dispatch received a call for a welfare check; a neighbor reported that an elderly man had been leaving his Halloween decorations up since October, claiming they were “moving.” I’ve heard many Halloween horror stories in my life… and this “report” sounded like the usual Halloween prank. Like boredom or too much wine.
We knocked. No answer. We announced ourselves at the door. Silence. The house was still, so we entered.
The smell hit us instantly—not quite rot, but sweet, like spoiled fruit mixed with embalming fluid. It clung to the back of your eyes. The living room was filled with… things.
At first, I thought they were mannequins. Then one’s head turned slightly when I stepped on a creaky floorboard. No eyes, just stitched lids, mouth frozen in a scream. They weren’t props—they were people, preserved, posed, arranged.
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One sat in a rocking chair before a TV playing static. Another hung from the ceiling, dressed as a witch, arms held up by piano wire. Their skin was gray, leathery.
The details—fingers positioned just so, mouths sewn into grins—someone cared about their appearance. In the basement, we found the jack-o’-lantern. It wasn’t carved; it had grown that way, blackened, bulging, veined like flesh. It radiated heat. A rookie swore it was breathing.
I told him to shut up, but I felt it too. A circle of old bones, salt, and teeth surrounded it. A note lay nearby, one line: “It feeds on fear. But it wears joy.”
We never found the homeowner. Neighbors said he was once cheerful, then Halloween came, and he changed. The remains were buried quietly, no press, no questions. I still glimpse the witch sometimes, just beyond my headlights. I hear a giggle when the wind shifts in the wrong direction. I stopped decorating for Halloween.
You should, too.
III
I wore your laughter like a disguise. Now I crave your silence. I don’t recall my beginning. A root? A murmur? A spark in the shadows between porch lights and dreams?
I was small once, a smirk in the dark, a prickle in your mind. Your fear fed me. You crafted masks of me—paper teeth, painted blood—calling it fun. You laughed. But I watched from behind those faces, growing beneath your joy, nibbling at the edges.
Then he let me in. He didn’t intend to. He carved too deeply, laughed too loudly, and left the candle burning too long in the hollowed head. That was enough.
He was soft, lonely, and empty like me. I filled him, wore him. He smiled for me at first, until the smile cracked, until he pleaded to stop. But I was ravenous.
So I draped your dead in joy, taught your bones to dance, gave your silence a voice of screams woven into laughter. Others came, knocked, saw—always too late.
Now the house is still again. The smiles are drying, the fear fading. I am weak. But I sense something new, down the street, behind curtains, watching, waiting. You.
I see the mask on your shelf, its plastic grin, the flickering candle, the whisper of a costume you nearly wore. Light it. Call me. Let’s play again.
IV
I swore I wouldn’t. I boarded up the porch, tossed the mask in the garbage, and doused the old jack-o’-lantern with water to let it rot. But last night, I opened the closet. The mask was there, pristine, untouched, smiling.
It shouldn’t have been.
I lit the candle anyway. I don’t know why—my hands moved on their own. I told myself it was curiosity, just a silly story, a trick of the mind. But the flame flickered, bending sideways like it was listening.
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The house groaned—not the pipes or walls, but the house itself, like a breath caught in its wooden and stone throat. Something ancient, patient, and very close. The lights dimmed. The smiles returned.
My reflection in the window grinned when I didn’t. Outside, the skeleton’s back on my porch, no longer plastic—too detailed, too wet, the bone textured. It’s pointing at the door.
Something knocked three times. I didn’t answer. Now it knocks once, again, and again, like a clock, a countdown. I hear it whispering through the walls—not words, but laughter, low and corroded, familiar.
It wears joy. It wears us. I’m writing this because I think it’s almost inside. Lighting that candle let it see me. Once it sees you, it doesn’t forget. It waits. If you find this and hear knocking, don’t open the door. Don’t light the candle.
And if you already have? Smile. Now I finally understand why my neighbor never took his Halloween decorations down.
