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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/philosophysubboy on 2024-10-22 23:50:25+00:00.

Halloween had always been the best night of the year for Peter and me. We were best friends—inseparable since kindergarten. We were the kids who’d plan for weeks, mapping out every house in our neighborhood, plotting how to score the most candy. We’d talk about it at school, where the teachers always gave us their fake smiles and said, “Don’t eat too much candy tonight!” But Peter and I had one goal: to get as much as we possibly could.

We weren’t satisfied with the cheap treats. We wanted the good stuff—the full-sized candy bars, the kind you had to beg your parents for at the store. And as we got older, we started to hear rumors. The kids at school said the next town over—Rosewood Heights—was rich. “They give out the big stuff,” one kid said, leaning in close like it was a secret. “Full-sized Snickers. Reese’s. Even King-sized sometimes.” Peter and I had looked at each other then, knowing what we had to do.

But there was a problem: our parents. They had warned us, year after year, not to go to Rosewood Heights. “It’s dangerous,” my mom had said. “Stick to our neighborhood.” She never explained why, just shook her head and said, “It’s not safe.”

We didn’t believe her. Peter didn’t, at least. “They just don’t want us to get better candy than the other kids,” he’d scoff. I agreed, kind of. I mean, how dangerous could it be? It was just another neighborhood, after all. The only thing different about it was that they had more money. That’s all.

So that year, we decided. We’d go to Rosewood Heights. We’d hit every house, and then we’d come back with bags full of candy. It was foolproof.

When Halloween finally came, we were buzzing with excitement. I remember the thrill of the night air, crisp and cool, the smell of fallen leaves and faint smoke from people’s chimneys. We raced through our own neighborhood, our pillowcases getting heavier with each stop. But no matter how much candy we got, it wasn’t enough. Peter kept saying, “It’s nothing compared to what we’ll get at Rosewood Heights.”

As the night wore on and the other kids started heading home, we stood at the edge of our town, looking over at Rosewood Heights. From where we stood, we could see the neat rows of houses, each one bigger and fancier than the ones we were used to. The lawns were immaculate, not a single blade of grass out of place. There were even carved pumpkins on every doorstep, perfectly lit.

“Let’s go,” Peter said, his eyes gleaming. “We’ll be back before anyone notices.”

We crossed over, excitement bubbling up in our chests. As we walked down the first street, I couldn’t believe how perfect everything looked. The houses were like something out of a magazine. Perfectly painted, with manicured bushes and clean driveways. Every door we knocked on opened to a smiling face, and just like we’d heard, they gave us full-sized candy bars—Snickers, Reese’s, Twix. Our pillowcases started to get heavy, but we kept going. House after house, collecting more and more. The people, though… they were a little strange.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. People smile on Halloween, right? But the smiles in Rosewood Heights were different. They were too wide, too forced. The eyes behind them were empty, like they were putting on a mask, and not the fun kind you wear with a costume. It made me uneasy, but Peter just laughed it off. “They’re just rich,” he said, like that explained everything.

I tried to ignore the weirdness. After all, we were getting the best candy haul of our lives. But when we reached the last house on the block, something felt… wrong. The house was different from the others. It was huge, with dark windows, and the yard was covered in creepy clown decorations. You know the kind: grinning, exaggerated faces with sharp teeth and wild hair. I hated clowns, but Peter thought they were hilarious.

“Come on, one last stop,” he said, pulling me toward the door. I hesitated, looking through the window. That’s when I saw them—the family. They were sitting at the kitchen table, all four of them: a father, a mother, a teenage girl, and a boy who looked about our age. But they weren’t eating, or talking, or even moving. They were just sitting there, staring blankly ahead, like mannequins.

“Peter, I don’t think—”

“Don’t be a chicken,” Peter said, and before I could stop him, he rang the doorbell.

The sound echoed through the house, loud and unnatural, like the chime had been distorted somehow. The family at the table didn’t move at first, but then, one by one, they turned their heads, their eyes locking on us through the window. I froze. There was something wrong with their faces—pale, too pale, with dark circles under their eyes. They looked sick, but their expressions didn’t change.

Before I could react, they shot out of their chairs. I mean, they didn’t get up—they moved, like they were being pulled by invisible strings, like puppets. All of them at once, rushing for the door.

“Run!” I screamed, but Peter didn’t move. The door flew open, and they grabbed him, pulling him inside with unnatural strength. Peter barely had time to scream before the door slammed shut. I could hear him shouting, but it was muffled, like the house itself was swallowing his voice.

I didn’t think. I dropped my pillowcase full of candy and ran, my heart pounding in my ears. I could hear footsteps behind me, fast, closing in. Every house on the block suddenly lit up, one by one, like a chain reaction. And then the doors started to open, and the people—the same people who had given us candy just minutes before—were stepping out. Only now, they weren’t smiling. Their faces were twisted, like the clowns in the yard, with sharp grins and eyes that gleamed in the dark.

They were coming for me.

I ran faster than I ever had in my life, zigzagging between houses, through yards, jumping over fences. I could hear them getting closer, their footsteps heavy on the ground. My lungs burned, my legs screamed in pain, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.

I was almost caught once, a hand brushing against my arm as I sprinted down a driveway. But I slipped through their fingers, my fear driving me forward. Somehow, I made it out of Rosewood Heights, my legs shaking, my breath ragged. The streetlights of my own neighborhood were a blur as I ran straight home. I didn’t look back. I didn’t dare.

When I burst through the front door, my mom was waiting for me, her face pale with worry. “Where’s Peter?” she asked, but I couldn’t answer. I just ran to my room and crawled under the covers, shaking uncontrollably.

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to forget what I had seen. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw Peter being dragged into that house. I heard his screams, echoing in my head.

The next morning, there was a knock at the door. It was Peter’s parents. They looked worried. His mom asked me if I knew where he was, said he hadn’t come home last night. I wanted to tell them everything, but the words wouldn’t come. I was too scared.

Soon, the police were called. They searched the neighborhood, questioned me and my family. I told them about Rosewood Heights, about the people, the house, the clowns. But no one believed me. They thought I was making it all up, that I was just a scared kid telling ghost stories. The search for Peter went on for weeks, but eventually, the case went cold.

That was 28 years ago.

Peter’s face was on the news for a while, plastered on missing posters all over town. But as time passed, people stopped looking. Stopped caring. And Rosewood Heights? I could never find it again. It was like it had disappeared, vanished without a trace. Every time I tried to go back, the streets were different. The houses were gone. It was like the town had never existed at all.

Now, I’m the only one who remembers.

Halloween is coming again, and for the first time in 28 years, I know what I have to do. I’m going back to Rosewood Heights. I don’t care if it’s a ghost town, or a nightmare I can’t escape. I’m going back to find Peter.

Wish me luck…