In “My Parents Vanish Every Halloween,” a strange tale unfolds as a young girl faces a recurring nightmare each Halloween when her parents mysteriously disappear, leaving her alone in an eerie, creaking house with cryptic notes and bizarre rules.
My parents vanish every Halloween. I don’t mean they’d sneak off for a night of revelry or a brief escape. No, they’d disappear—completely gone as dusk fell, leaving me alone in the house. I’d look in the rooms, shouting their names, but they were nowhere to be found, as if they’d never existed. We never discussed it.
By dawn, they’d reappear, behaving as if everything was normal, as though it was just an ordinary night. But it wasn’t. I knew it wasn’t. I learned that through bitter experience.
It started when I was six. That first Halloween is carved in my mind. I was wearing my new witch’s costume, and I was thrilled for trick-or-treating. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, the house turned eerie—chilly, quiet, unnaturally still. I dashed through the corridors, calling out for my mom and dad, but there was no answer.
Fear seized me. I thought they might be hiding, playing a Halloween trick. They loved horror Halloween stories, so I figured they were pulling a prank on me. But after what felt like hours of searching, I knew they were gone. The front door was bolted, the windows latched, and I was entirely alone.
That’s when I found the first note. It was on the kitchen table, penned in my mother’s familiar handwriting. It read:
Rule 1: “Stay in your room. Don’t leave until morning. Ignore anything you hear.”
I didn’t understand. Frightened and confused, I didn’t want to stay in my room; I wanted my parents. But something about the note forced me to comply. I grabbed a flashlight and a pillow, locked my bedroom door, and huddled beneath the covers. I wondered if it was some strange game. I wasn’t certain.
Sleep eluded me that night. The house moaned and creaked, louder than usual. Odd noises filled the air—faint scratches at my door, footsteps in the hallway, whispers too soft to make out. I told myself it was the wind or my mind playing tricks, but deep inside, I knew better. Something was in the house with me.
When morning arrived and I opened my door, my parents were back, seated at the kitchen table, drinking coffee as if nothing had happened. I asked where they’d been, what had taken place, but they just smiled and said it must have been a bad dream.
That was the beginning.
Every Halloween thereafter, the cycle repeated. My parents would disappear before nightfall, leaving a note behind. Each year, the instructions grew more specific, more ominous. By the time I was eight, the notes included:
Rule 2: “Don’t look out the windows.”
Rule 3: “Don’t respond if someone calls your name.”
And the noises—they grew worse.
When I was nine, the sounds outside my room became unbearable. Loud, persistent banging rattled the door, not soft but aggressive. I covered my ears, squeezed my eyes shut, but I couldn’t shut it out. Then came a voice—my mother’s, calling my name.
“Ellie, it’s alright. You can come out now.” It sounded so calm, so familiar. For a moment, I almost believed it was her. But the rule was clear: “Do not open the door, no matter what you hear.”
So I stayed put, trembling under the covers until the knocking ceased. I never told my parents about the voice, and they never asked.
The years went by, and the ritual continued. It became a grim Halloween tradition. Like one of those Halloween horror stories no one believes to be true, but everyone likes because that’s the “tradition.
While other kids dressed up and collected candy, I stayed locked in my room, listening to the house stir with unseen things. I grew accustomed to the notes, the eerie sounds, the sensation of being watched. It was my own haunted routine.
But when I turned thirteen, everything shifted.
That year, the note was different. I found it on my bed as the sun set, but instead of the usual rules, it read:
Rule 4: “Something new is in the house tonight. Be cautious.”
I didn’t know what it meant, but the words sent a shiver down my spine. Something new? What could that be? I locked my door as always and tried to settle in, but an overwhelming sense of dread gripped me.
The noises began earlier than usual. At first, it was the familiar creaks and footsteps, which I’d grown used to. But then, there was something else—breathing. Low, heavy, just outside my door. It wasn’t human—too slow, too deep. I pressed myself against the headboard, clutching my flashlight like a shield, though I knew it was useless.
The breathing faded, but then came scratching—not at the door, but inside my room. I swept the flashlight across the walls and the ceiling, but saw nothing.
The scratching grew louder, nearer, until it seemed to come from under my bed. My heart raced, my throat dry with terror. I didn’t dare look beneath the bed, too afraid of what I might see.
The scratching stopped, replaced by a soft, childlike giggle that chilled me to the bone. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t my parents. Something was in the room with me.
I backed against the wall, holding the flashlight out as if it could ward off whatever was there. The giggling continued, quiet and taunting. I whispered, “It’s not real. It’s just a game.” But I no longer believed it.
Suddenly, a loud bang shook the door, and the entire room trembled with the force of it. I dropped the flashlight, plunging into darkness. The breathing returned, now right outside the door.
Bang!
Another strike. The door quivered.
Bang!
The lock rattled. Whatever was out there was trying to get in.
I scrambled for the flashlight, my shaking hands barely able to grasp it. The banging grew fiercer, each hit threatening to splinter the door. Then, as abruptly as it began, it stopped.
Silence. A heavy, oppressive silence.
I held my breath, listening for any movement. Then the voice returned, soft and sweet, like syrup.
“Ellie, it’s alright. You can come out now.”
It was my mother’s voice again, but I knew it wasn’t her. I didn’t respond, didn’t move, just sat frozen, praying for dawn.
The voice called again, more urgent. “Ellie, don’t be afraid. It’s just a game.”
My hands shook, barely holding the flashlight. The voice kept calling, but I stayed silent, clinging to the rules. Then, something strange happened. The door began to unlock. I heard the soft click of the lock turning, the handle slowly twisting.
“No,” I whispered, pressing myself against the wall, willing the door to stay closed. But it was too late. The door creaked open, just a sliver, enough to reveal a shadow in the hallway—tall, thin, with limbs too long and fingers like claws.
It wasn’t my mother.
The creature stood in the doorway, motionless, watching me. I felt its gaze, though I couldn’t see its face. My heart pounded, and I thought I might faint.
Then, the first rays of sunlight slipped through the window. The creature hissed, recoiling like a wounded animal, and vanished within seconds. The door slammed shut, and the house fell silent.
I didn’t leave my room until the sun was fully up. When I finally opened the door, the house was as it had been—quiet, empty, untouched.
My parents were back, sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee as always. I stumbled in, pale and shaken, and told them everything—the creature, the scratching, the voice that wasn’t my mother’s. They exchanged a glance, and my dad chuckled softly.
“You must have had a nightmare,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing like that happened, Ellie. It was just your imagination.”
My mom gave that same odd smile and said, “You’re safe now. It’s over.”
But I knew better. It wasn’t a dream. The fear, the sounds, the things I’d seen—they were real. They had to be. My parents didn’t believe me; they never did, and that was the most terrifying part.
Now, as an adult with my own children, I know the truth. Whatever haunted that house, whatever played that twisted game, it’s still out there, waiting. And it’s ravenous.
I fear for my children’s safety. I’ll never let them endure what I did. I’ll protect them at all costs, even if it means never celebrating Halloween, never letting the night touch them as it touched me.
Because I know, deep down, that it’s only a matter of time before the game begins again. Halloween is coming.
