In “Otto,” a nine-year-old’s joyful Halloween evening takes a sinister turn after meeting Otto, a seemingly cheerful boy in a tattered pirate costume. What starts as an innocent friendship and a playful candy-collecting bet unravels into a chilling descent when Otto’s unsettling behavior and cryptic pleas reveal a dark secret tied to his home.
I’m writing this down to try to explain what happened when I was nine years old. Every vivid detail of this Halloween horror story remains seared in my mind. But it wasn’t just a creepy story—it was real. And I can’t bear the weight of my actions any longer. This is my confession.
Halloween was my favorite holiday, and I was the sort of kid who made friends easily, loved talking, and racing around with others until I was out of breath.
That evening, I was at the little square near my home. My friends had headed home early, but I stayed behind. I cherished that time of day, when the sky burned orange and everything felt calm before night settled in.
I sat on a swing, gazing at the sunset, mapping out my candy-gathering route. I was excited to wear my new costume and gobble up every treat I could collect.
That’s when someone tapped me.
It was a young boy, maybe seven. He flashed a grin and asked if I could give him a push on the swing. I agreed, of course—at that age, I’d make friends with anyone.
His name was Otto.
He seemed like an ordinary kid, brimming with joy and energy, like most children. He wore a slightly worn, tattered pirate costume. I thought it was unusual, but didn’t mind. At that age, it didn’t matter.
We talked for a bit. He chatted about his pirate outfit, and I told him about the costume I’d wear later for trick-or-treating. We made a playful bet to see who could gather the most candy on Halloween. Back then, making friends was simple—you’d share names and instantly become close pals.
Time passed quickly. Before I realized, the orange sky had deepened to a rich blue. I kept pushing Otto on the swing, laughing as we tried to build enough speed to fly high.
Then a group of kids showed up, wanting the swing. They told me to move, but I said Otto and I were still using it.
Their response was odd. They looked confused, as if my words didn’t make sense. I didn’t understand, not at the time.
But Otto asked me to stop. He jumped off the swing, smiled, and suggested we go somewhere else.
“It’s getting dark,” he said.
I told him I needed to head home to put on my costume. He seemed excited and said he wanted to see it. I didn’t think much of it. Kids don’t overanalyze; things just happen, and we roll with them.
We walked to my house together. The streets were alive with kids in colorful costumes and plastic masks, darting everywhere. Orange and purple lights blinked in windows, and “trick or treat!” rang out, mingling with laughter and quick footsteps.
Otto and I, now feeling like old friends, took it all in, thrilled for the night ahead.
At my house, I told him to start trick-or-treating at nearby homes while I showered and changed. He nodded, smiled, and waited as I went inside.
The warm, sugary aroma of caramel hit me. My mom always made caramel apples this time of year. She came from the kitchen, a dish towel slung over her shoulder, her face rosy from the warmth of the stove.
“Oh, before I forget,” she said, pointing to a corner, “I’ve gathered some old things to donate. Look through it later and see if you want to keep anything.”
I nodded, more interested in the caramel apples, but before heading upstairs, I glanced at the cardboard box. It was an old grocery box, packed with worn toys—broken action figures, scuffed toy cars, and clothes I barely recognized.
I poked through the top, just to say I’d checked.
Then I saw it.
At the bottom, half-hidden under a dinosaur mask, was a small gray cloth mouse. It belonged to Polaco, my cat. He used to carry it everywhere, and I’d trip over it constantly. It had been years since he vanished.
My mom said cats sometimes run off and never return. But I liked to imagine he’d show up one day, meowing at the door.
I held the mouse, recalling how Polaco would curl up with it to take a nap. It wasn’t a sad memory, just a fond one that caught me off guard. I set the toy aside, grabbed a caramel apple, and went to shower.
I lost track of time in the bathroom, only snapping out of it when my mom shouted, asking if I’d drowned.
In my room, I checked myself in the mirror, humming an imaginary hero-transformation theme. I slipped into my ninja costume—simple black with red accents—and struck poses, feeling invincible. As a kid, that was enough.
I yelled to my mom that I wouldn’t be out late and rushed outside.
Otto was there. On the same sidewalk. With an empty bag.
I found it odd. I’d told him to start without me, yet there he was, as if he hadn’t moved. He smiled when he saw me, and I felt a faint unease I couldn’t place—maybe guilt for taking too long.
His pirate costume, which I’d thought was just old and torn, now looked dirty, like it had been dragged through mud. A dark stain on the sleeve, unnoticed before, caught my eye. I ignored it, figuring I’d just missed it earlier.
And so the night began. We raced door to door, through streets lit by Halloween glow. Each house brought new costumes, new candy, and a chance to flaunt my ninja outfit. Otto stayed by my side, smiling, having as much fun as I was.
Oddly, Otto didn’t engage when candy was handed out. Neighbors praised my costume, dropped candy in my bag, but ignored him. This happened at nearly every house.
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Something felt wrong. They didn’t seem to see Otto. And Otto didn’t seem to notice them. He stepped back when the doors opened. I thought it was unfair. They were overlooking my new friend, maybe because his costume was ragged, but that was no excuse.
I didn’t let it ruin the fun. We had more houses to hit. We knocked on more doors, my bag nearly full.
The sky, once orange, was now purple, the wind picking up, rustling trees and scattering leaves across sidewalks. The house lights began to dim, and Halloween decorations faded into darkness. The sound of kids shouting “trick or treat!” grew faint, like a distant echo.
Otto kept smiling, unfazed.
Passing a square, I heard leaves scraping the ground, blown by the wind. A nearby streetlight flickered twice, then went out. A damp, earthy scent filled the air. In a quiet corner, near a tree draped with fake cobwebs and rubber bats, Otto and I paused. We sat on the sidewalk, still warm from the day, and opened some candy wrappers.
I munched a caramel while Otto twirled a lollipop as we talked.
“They’re annoying, right?” I said, pouting. “They act like you’re not even there just because your costume’s torn. Stupid people.”
Otto gave a crooked smile.
“Yeah… stupid people.”
I told him not to worry—if anyone made him feel bad, I’d use my awesome ninja skills on them.
“You’d hit someone to protect me?”
I’d said it jokingly, but his response… It felt too serious. His calm, curious tone sent a shiver down my spine. I laughed it off, saying, “Of course, you’re my friend, I’d protect you.”
He smiled, still twirling his lollipop. I found it odd that Otto wasn’t eating any candy, so I asked. He said he didn’t like candy that much. My jaw dropped. Who doesn’t like candy?
Otto laughed.
Then he stopped abruptly. He lowered his head, and when he looked up, his voice was quieter but clear: “I don’t want to go back home. I want to go with you.”
I froze, unsure how to respond. It was just a kid’s request, right? However, it didn’t feel that way. Something about his words, the way he said them, felt off. Like “going home” wasn’t about trick-or-treating but something he dreaded.
I wanted to ask what he meant, but he quickly changed the topic, offering me candy and urging us to keep going. Trying to shake it off, we continued through the neighborhood. Orange and purple lights blinked on porches, and distant “trick or treat!” cries attempted to keep things light.
But the mood had shifted.
Then we saw it. An accident. A dog was hit by a car. People gathered, trying to help, but from a distance, it was clear the dog was gone. It lay still. I stopped. So did Otto.
The poor dog… it probably had years left. The crying people around it—likely its family. I tried to imagine losing someone like that, but couldn’t.
I thought of Polaco. My experience was different—Polaco just disappeared, but this dog was clearly dead, in front of its family.
I glanced at Otto. He stood motionless, eyes fixed on the dog’s body. No words, no blinks, no breath. I called his name. Once, twice, three times. My voice felt strange. The third time, I shouted. He didn’t budge.
I touched his shoulder—cold, rigid. I shook him. Nothing.
When I grabbed his arm to pull him away, he stumbled and fell hard. He got up, eyes normal again, smiling like nothing had happened. But as I helped him, his sleeve slipped, revealing a deep, purple bruise covering his arm. It looked wrong, not fresh but unnatural.
I asked how he got it. He said, “It was Mom. She says I’m too naughty.” I wasn’t expecting that. Suddenly, his earlier comment clicked. Otto wanted to escape home, and in me, he saw safety. At least, that’s what I thought.
It was late. The uneasy mix of Halloween’s vibe and my discomfort gave me chills. I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t abandon Otto. We’d wandered too far—I was lost, unsure how to get home. Otto noticed and made a strange suggestion: “Want to come to my house? We can call your mom to pick you up. And I can show you something cool—you’ll like it.”
It felt off. One moment, he dreaded home; now he was inviting me. Confused, I declined, saying I’d head home alone. Otto gave that odd smile, like he’d anticipated my answer. I turned to the street behind me.
It was pitch black, impossibly empty. It didn’t make sense—it wasn’t that late. I took a step into the darkness, but something held me back. I stood, the air heavy. The night’s sounds—laughter, footsteps—were gone. Only my heartbeat thumped, the emptiness pressing in.
I looked at Otto. He stood still, that unshakable smile on his face. It made no sense. I tried to breathe deeply, but the unease grew. Otto was my friend. So why was I terrified?
I glanced down the street again. The darkness seemed to spread, shadows creeping closer. I wasn’t alone anymore. With my chest tight, without knowing how or why, I mumbled, “Okay, let’s go.” When I looked back, Otto just gestured, like he’d known I’d agree.
I didn’t understand what was happening, but something inside warned me I’d regret this. The walk to his house was short, each step heavier. The houses around looked normal, but the air felt wrong—suffocating, like a place no one should be.
Otto said his mom wasn’t home, probably working late.
Inside, the house felt… alive. Clean curtains, the scent of fresh coffee, and an old photo above the fireplace. But the air was thick, like the walls were watching.
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“Come on, I want to show you my room,” Otto said, disappearing down the hall.
Upstairs, his bedroom door was ajar. The hallway was quiet, with warm light from a lamp casting a glow on the pale walls. It was a modern house, with colorful paintings and tidy rugs. I pushed the door gently.
The room looked typical for a boy—neat bed, organized toys, string lights twinkling on the wall. Toy cars, stuffed animals, and a poster from an old cartoon.
But something was off.
On the dresser was a small altar. Dolls lined up neatly, electric candles flickering, and in the center, a photo of Otto. He was smiling, but his eyes looked hollow, different. Beneath the photo, a folded piece of paper.
I picked it up.
The handwriting was adult, precise, and the paper was yellowed at the edges. It read: “Forgive me. I created a monster. May God receive this poor soul and those he’s hurt.”
A chill ran through me. I looked around. Otto was there, sitting on the bed’s edge, feet swinging lightly, smiling. But it wasn’t the same smile. It lacked joy, lightness—empty, weary.
“I died,” he said suddenly, voice low, like sharing a secret. “She killed me.”
The room grew colder. Otto lowered his head, fingers fidgeting with his costume’s edge.
“She said I was too naughty… too strange… that I did things no child should do.”
He looked up, his gaze chilling me.
“I know I said I didn’t want to go home… but I thought you might help me with something.”
He stood, the carpet muffling his steps, and stopped by the dresser, picking up the photo.
“She did this to me,” he whispered. “Said I was a monster. And killed me. She had no right.”
He turned to me. “I just need you to do one thing, just one,” his voice was almost sweet, but something rotten lurked beneath. “Finish her. For me.”
The words hung heavy, heavier than any silence.
“After that… I’ll leave. After that, I’ll be free… and happy.”
The room’s lights flickered. I wanted to say no, to run, but my body felt rooted to the floor. The downstairs doorknob creaked. Otto’s mother was home.
Her voice was light, humming softly. I heard keys jingle on the table. In the room, Otto stared at me.
“She’s here.”
His words seeped into my mind like venom, urging me to stay, to fix it, to end it. I tried to refuse, whispering “no” to myself. For the first time, Otto’s smile vanished.
The sound of coffee brewing. My sweaty hands, heart pounding.
“You know she deserves it.” He stepped closer. “She needs to pay.”
I closed my eyes, feeling an icy chill on my neck, a presence crawling up my spine, overwhelming the room. Then, I lost control. My fingers clenched against my will. My muscles moved, no longer mine.
I opened my eyes. Otto was too close—not in front, but inside.
I fought, tried to stop my body, but it was futile. Each step toward the door, each movement, wasn’t mine. He waited for her to reach her room—then act. Down the stairs. Into the kitchen. Grabbing a knife from the sink.
In the window’s reflection, I saw my face, but not my eyes.
They were Otto’s.
Upstairs again, the floor creaking. Her voice, laughing at some joke, unaware of the past, was climbing the stairs. The final step’s creak was deafening. Each step thundered in my ears, but I couldn’t stop. The hallway felt longer, darker. The walls seemed to close in, choking the air.
The knife was steady in my hand—or his, I couldn’t tell.
Otto moved with me, inside me, a weight in my chest, breathing through my lungs. Her door appeared, slightly ajar, the TV’s hum drowning out everything. A movie played, cheerful voices out of place.
“Now,” Otto whispered, his voice echoing wetly in my head. The doorknob felt icy. I approached, the knife glinting in the TV’s dim light.
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I saw her, lying on the bed, watching TV. I wanted to scream, to say anything, but my mouth, legs, and hands—they wouldn’t obey.
“She’ll sleep in peace. Unlike me.” Otto’s words crushed my chest, stealing the air.
My hand rose. The sound of metal slicing the air. She turned, confused, as if she’d heard something. Our eyes met. In that moment, before the strike, I saw her hidden fear, guilt, and the past resurfacing.
But it was too late. I saw it all clearly. Each stab my hand—his—made. Her screams filled the house. Her expression… I saw it all. I was forced to watch, my eyes glued to the screen, unable to turn away.
Otto wanted to see. But deep down, he wanted me to see too. His revenge. His bloody revenge. The world went dark before I saw the rest. Only a whisper in my ear: “Thank you.”
And silence.
It’s been years since that night. Sometimes, I feel like I’ve been someone else since. As if something had stayed behind in that house. Or in me. My mother never understood why I came home silent, avoiding her eyes.
Otto never reappeared. No voice, no shadow, no reflection.
But every Halloween… I feel it. A unease. Like cold hands brushing my shoulders. And though I tell myself it’s just the wind, Otto’s smile lingers in my mind.
Always.
