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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Weird-Suggestion-152 on 2024-10-15 16:10:38+00:00.

I’ve lived my entire life in a holler on the outskirts of Wyoming County, West Virginia, deep in the mountains of Appalachia. It’s a place so remote most folks don’t even know it exists on a map. Just a handful of families, and dense, unforgiving woods. This place doesn’t have neighborhoods, doesn’t have sidewalks, and most definitely does not have trick-or-treaters on Halloween. Halloween isn’t a holiday here. It’s a test.

My family, and the others who’ve lived here long enough to know, follow a set of rules on Halloween night. It’s not tradition or superstition. It’s survival. Those who didn’t follow the rules didn’t live long enough to tell anyone about it.

Our rules aren’t just about keeping doors locked or avoiding dark places. They’re specific, with reasons rooted in events we don’t talk about. My dad always said they came from my great-grandmother’s time, when people came to these mountains from Scotland and still believed in the “old ways." Whether it’s spirits, or something else that’s out there, or things just too old to name, Halloween night here has always been a game of life and death. And each rule existed to give you just enough of an edge to make it through till morning.

The first time I broke a rule, I learned why they exist. And I’ll never forget it.

Every October, around the second week, the rules went up on the fridge. We lived by them. My family took them seriously, and not just in a “keep the kids safe” kind of way. No. These rules were for everyone. Break one, and you’d put us all in danger.

Here’s how they go:

1. If you hear three knocks at the door after sunset, do not answer.
2. If you hear a single, hard knock, open the door, but do not look at who stands there. Hold out a basket of freshly baked bread and wait until you hear the footsteps leaving to shut the door.
3. If you hear someone call your name from the woods, do not answer.
4. If you see a figure at the tree line wearing a wide-brimmed hat, do not look at him for longer than one second.
5. If you hear chains dragging on the ground, sprinkle salt on all windowsills and door thresholds within one minute.
6. If a candle is burning in the window of the old, abandoned Anderson cabin up the hill, stay indoors, no matter what.

These rules didn’t exist for no reason. They were handed down because bad things had happened. People vanished, people died, and strange things occurred. That’s just how it was.

I remember one specific year, years back, when Halloween night fell on a full moon. The air felt different, charged. My dad had a sense for when things were going to be bad. You could just feel it in the holler, thick in the air, like something breathing down your neck. Dad told us to get all the preparations done early.

“Salt the windows now,” he instructed, standing by the door, his face tight with worry. “We’re not waiting for the chains.”

I followed his orders without question, pouring salt along each windowsill and at the front and back door thresholds. My brother was baking bread, already anticipating rule number two, the one we hated the most. It was the one that forced us to interact with whatever knocked, whatever stood on the other side of that door. We never knew who or what it was, but we knew if you didn’t offer bread, or if you dared to look, it wouldn’t be good.

By late afternoon, the house was fortified. The bread was cooling on the counter, its smell filling the kitchen. The fire was lit, burning low, and a 12 gauge lay across Dad’s lap like it always did on Halloween. Isaac, my younger brother, sat closest to the window, glancing out every now and then.

We had about three hours before sunset. The rules were clear, everything bad happened after dark. But the waiting was the worst part. The longer we sat there, the more anxious we became.

“Did we use enough salt this year?” Isaac asked quietly.

Dad didn’t answer. He just stared into the fire, gripping the gun tighter. That was answer enough.

The first knock came just after dark. A single knock, slow and deliberate. Isaac and I froze, staring at the door. Dad stood up, motioning for us to stay back and be quiet. I swallowed hard, heart pounding in my chest. It was time to follow rule two.

Without a word, Dad picked up the basket of bread from the counter, freshly baked, still warm. He walked to the door, resting one hand on the knob.

“Remember,” he said, his voice low and steady, “don’t look.”

He opened the door just wide enough to slip the basket through the crack, his eyes focused on the floor. The warm smell of the bread wafted out, and I could hear a faint shuffling on the porch. Whoever, or whatever it was, was out there. I saw a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye, a shadow stretching across the porch, but I didn’t dare look.

Dad held the basket out, his hand shaking slightly. For a few heartbeats, there was no sound, no movement, and then, footsteps. Slow, heavy footsteps retreating from the porch. He waited until they faded completely, then shut the door quietly, locking it tight.

Isaac let out a breath. “Why don’t we just leave the bread out early? Why do we have to wait for the knock?”

Dad’s face was pale, and his eyes were hard. “We have to wait for the knock. And if we don’t answer the knock, it’ll come in.”

We thought it was over. We had followed rule two to the letter, and for a moment, it seemed like things were quiet. But here, nothing stays quiet for long on Halloween.

Isaac was the first to notice him. He was standing at the edge of the woods, just where the trees meet the clearing. He was tall and thin, a wide-brimmed hat casting his face in shadow. He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, but he was there, watching.

Isaac gasped, pointing. “It’s him,” he whispered, voice trembling. Dad didn’t need to ask who. He knew. We all did. The man in the hat.

“Don’t look at him,” Dad snapped. “Not for more than a second.”

I glanced, just enough to confirm he was there. A tall, dark figure, almost blending into the shadows of the trees, but distinct enough to make my blood run cold. I looked away quickly, heart hammering in my chest.

We got away from the doors and windows of the house, and sat huddled in the living room, the fire our only light. Outside, the man in the hat stood at the tree line, unmoving as the night crept on.

It wasn’t until after midnight that we heard the chains.

At first, it was faint, a metallic clinking that seemed distant, almost like it could’ve been the wind. But it grew louder, closer, until it was unmistakable. The sound of chains being dragged across the rocky ground outside.

Isaac’s face turned pale. He shot me a look, wide-eyed and terrified. “The salt,” he whispered.

Dad nodded grimly. “Go check.”

I got up slowly, trying to control the tremor in my legs. I circled the house, inspecting every window and doorframe. The salt lines were intact. Nothing had disturbed them. The chains continued to scrape outside, dragging closer and closer, but we didn’t dare open the door. We didn’t dare look. We stayed inside, sitting together in the flickering light of the fire, listening to the sound of the chains until the first light of dawn broke through the windows.

We had made it through the night. The man in the hat was gone. The chains had stopped. But as the morning light seeped through the shutters, I glanced toward the old Anderson cabin up the hill, and there it was. A single candle still burning in the window.

The rules are clear. When the candle burns in the Anderson cabin, you stay inside. No exceptions. No excuses. Even with the sun beginning to shine and the birds beginning to chirp, the sight of that candle filled me with a primal fear. We have to wait until the candle goes out before we can go outside, before the night is truly over.

And that’s how it goes here. The rules aren’t just there to be followed, they’re there to keep you alive. And if you’re smart, you don’t ask questions. Sometimes, it’s better not to know.

Halloween here had always been terrifying, but last year, last year was different.

It wasn’t just the usual unease, or the normal anxiety that came with the setting sun. It almost felt like the rules weren’t enough anymore. My dad was getting older, his movements slower, his hands a little less steady. We all knew it, but no one said anything. We just followed the rules like always, hoping that would be enough.

We spent the day in preparation, salting the windows, baking the bread, the usual. Isaac and I were jittery, pacing around, double-checking everything. With my dad getting older, we felt a greater pressure to take it upon ourselves to prepare. The sky darkened faster than usual, clouds rolling in from the west, blotting out the last rays of the sun. By the time dusk fell, the fire was burning low, and the house sat in darkness.

Dad sat in his usual spot by the door, the shotgun across his lap. The basket of bread, fresh out of the oven, sat next to him. We all waited, our hearts pounding in the silence. I kept glancing at the windows, expecting to see the figure in the hat or hear the drag of chains.

And then it came. A single knock, loud and deliberate.

Dad stood up, just like every other year. “Stay put,” he muttered, picking up the basket with his trembling hands. His face was pale, but his voice was steady.

Isaac and I exchanged a nervous glance as Dad approached the door. As always, I stared at the floor, focusing on the so…

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