October 28, 2025 • 25 mins
When Michelle takes a job at a pop-up Halloween store called Monster Mart, she expects long hours, fog machines, and impatient customers—not a stranger who seems to know her every detail. After a bizarre encounter with a pale woman fixated on her shoes, things spiral into the unexplainable. The next night, that same woman is found dead—dressed exactly like Michelle. As eerie coincidences pile up and her father’s secrets resurface, Michelle begins to wonder if the haunting didn’t start at the store... but with her. A chilling true-to-life tale about identity, fate, and the ghosts we create ourselves.
https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Carrie_Morgan%27s_Halloween_Costume
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https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Carrie_Morgan%27s_Halloween_Costume
Thank you for enjoying my podcast! Take a listen to the other podcast at Candlelight Storyworks
Midnight Scares - Fall Asleep to Spooky Storiesl
Candlight Classics - Classic Short Stories to Help You Sleep
Candlelight Romance - Fall Asleep While Falling In Love
True Crime by Candlelight - Drift Off to Dark Mysteries
Find them all on your favorite podcast right here:
https://linktr.ee/candlelightstoryworks
If you are tired of commercials, you can always follow me on Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/candlelightstoryworks
I am also writing a few horror and gothic romance books. If you're intrested, please follow me on my other Patreon at
http://www.patreon.com/sarahmarshalking
**While this is my voice, sometimes I use an AI cloned version of my voice because it helps with my dyslexia.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Carrie Morgan's Halloween costume by mac Ralston. During high school
and throughout my college years, retail work and I were
no strangers. In fact, you might have even been able
to call us roommates, judging by how often the jobs
came home with me. No, I didn't have to stock
shelves in my living room, which was essentially the entirety
(00:23):
of my apartment at the time, nor would you've caught
me bagging items beside the sink, which was also in
the living room. Somehow, work accompanied me home for the
most part, mentally. Sometimes there'd be physical evidence, sure, especially
if the day's customer had shouted spit onto my uniform.
(00:43):
But for the most part, my home work was merely
trying to forget about work at home despite my best efforts. However,
there's one day of retail work from my youth I'll
likely never forget so long as I live. Sometimes, if
truth be told, I'm glad I remember it. Other times, however,
(01:04):
I'm not so sure. It's just left me with too
many questions, some of which I know will never be
answered to those who ask, which isn't many. Most of
my jobs were what I like to call odds and ends,
because the majority were but means to an end, namely money,
and most were most certainly odd. I recall rather fondly
(01:27):
my summer days at the local put putt golf course,
watching kids and their parents fail to get a neon
pink ball through an alligator's mouth, as I also retain
warm memories of life guarding at the local rec center's pool,
where I was similarly nothing more than a passive observer,
this time with a whistle around my neck that I
seldom ever blew. The jobs less desirable, but nevertheless well
(01:51):
paying were the seasonal retail ones where most of my
headaches came from. The general public can be a rather
loathsome bunch, especially at times of year when you'd expect otherwise.
Christmas comes to mind first and foremost. Nothing says peace
on earth and good will toward men, like two middle
(02:11):
aged women brawling over a plush care bear. The thing
ripped in two, if memory serves, and both women were
detained by the mall security. This was all before my
lunch break Monstermart. Why I ever agreed to work the
register of the pop up halloween store I believe called
(02:32):
Monster Mart at the same mall. The following fall is
beyond me. Actually it isn't. The ANSWER's quite simple, really.
If there was a steady paycheck involved, so was I,
even if that meant filling up a fog machine every
morning and hearing the same deep voice bellow the ever
so generic beware turn back, now followed by a fit
(02:56):
of evil laughter, every time some one stepped through the doorway.
I must have heard it six thousand times by the
time November rolled around, and I used to joke that
inhaling that damp smelling fog for about a month straight
would probably give me cancer. I don't joke about that
kind of thing anymore. A few days before Halloween, In fact,
(03:20):
it might have been the day before, though I can't
fully remember. I recall working the front register, as I
so often did. It was a time we all called
the final stretch, not only because we'd all need a
good one following a long day of standing on our feet,
but also because those last few days before Halloween were
(03:41):
some of the busiest. Everyone waits until the last minute
to pick out their costume and then loves to complain
that we didn't have it in their size or carry
the right accessories. Despite my manager's insistence not to. For
those kinds of people, I'd happily direct them to the
nearest department store under my breath, out of sight, out
(04:04):
of mind, at least until I got back home, where
all of the day's interactions would come flooding back to me,
such as the time the woman with the little girl
wrapped around her leg insisted that the ring I was
wearing must have been sold in the store. Ma'am, this
is my personal ring, I explained to her, as I
(04:25):
lifted my hand to showcase it. I got it somewhere else. Well,
you shouldn't be flashing it around if you can't even
buy it here, I remember her exclaiming. Her hands were
just about over her head, and the little girl between
her legs looked to be on the brink of tears.
It's teasing the kids, specially in a costume store. I
(04:48):
was about to reply something like, well, it isn't a
jewelry store, now, is it, But the reddened face of
the young girl peering up at me choked out my
voice from speaking. The line behind the woman and her
presumed daughter nearly reached the front door, spread with spider
webs and the aforementioned beware turn back now shouting strobe light,
(05:12):
and I could tell the other customers were getting impatient.
I sighed and extended my hand down, which had cupped
something from a finger on the other here, I said
to the little girl, opening my hand to reveal the
ring on my palm. I can have it, the girl asked.
All these years later, I can still hear her sweet
(05:35):
little voice. I nodded, mum hum, I said, what are
you going to be for Halloween? She looked up at
the woman and then back to me. A princess. I smiled,
and the woman, still clearly and visibly heated, twitched a
slight grin onto her face. Well, Halloween must have come early,
(05:57):
I said, because you already are a princess. The girl
smiled and took the ring, sliding it onto her little finger.
As I suspected, it was far too big, but she
didn't seem to mind. All the while, I had successfully
done the impossible in a retail job, I shut the
whining customer up. All the woman could do, in fact,
(06:18):
was not a half baked thank you, and walk off
a few seconds later, as the next customer approached the counter,
I heard the strobe light, which must have been on
a motion censor bid them a merry beware turn back
now as they left. That was rather nice of you,
the man before me said, dropping three masks onto the countertop.
(06:43):
I shrugged and began scanning, starting with the witch one.
The customer's always right, right, I chuckled. The man did too.
He then started to say something, but I was no
longer paying attention, despite my hands, going through the motions
and moving toward the jack O lantern. At the opposite
end of the store, past the rows and rows of
(07:06):
orange and purple lights, the hanging spiders, and the floating ghuls,
stood a woman. She had been staring directly at me
until I lifted my head to notice. Then, as if
trying to avert my gaze, she blinked and started glancing
about everywhere but in my direction. The initial sight of
(07:28):
her chilled me more than it should have. At first glance,
her face blended in with the dozens of masks along
the back walls which I had stalked just a day prior.
Like the Dracula or the Mummy or the three or
so zombies, her face was a palish white with somewhat
sunken cheeks. Her eyes were dark but full of that
(07:50):
alluring mystery that compelled me to keep watch, despite the
fact that she was just some lady, nothing more than
another customer. While I was in it, that moment of
locking eyes with her felt eternal. In reality, it was
probably just a couple of seconds. Uh yeah, I said,
(08:12):
responding to the man's question that I didn't hear. Luckily
that was the right answer, because the man nodded, thanked me,
and took the bag from my hand. I didn't even
notice I had been holding it. I also didn't realize
I had slipped his receipt inside. Then again, when you
do that kind of work for as long as I had,
it eventually becomes muscle memory. The exchanges all blurred together,
(08:36):
just as the customer's faces did, and I can no
more distinctly recall their voices, aside from that of the
little girl, than I could the lyrics to the Monster Mash,
despite having listened to it twelve times a day for
over a month. I say all of this with one exception,
the staring woman. Her face and her voice will never
(08:58):
escape me. As the line continued to move, I noticed
over the shoulders of the next five or so customers
that the woman had remained in her placement at the
back of the store. At the back of the line.
She had something in her hand, maybe something she was
trying to buy, but kept letting each of the approaching
customers cut her in line. This continued for about half
(09:22):
an hour, until the store was near closing and the
crowds had all gone home, every one but the woman.
Finally she had taken her place in line, and as
the last of the customers swiped their cards or unwrinkled
their cash, I watched as she slowly approached my counter.
I could also now see what she had been carrying,
(09:44):
A blond wig. She had waited some forty five minutes
for a cheap blond wig. Find everything all right, I
finally asked her, as she placed the wig gently atop
the counter. Normally, the whole back and forth the niceties,
the how are you good? How are you thing came
(10:04):
off my tongue as smooth as butter. Now I had
to work for it, as if each syllable needed to
be articulated to my question. The woman simply nodded my
hand trembling, despite not knowing why. I took the scanner
and a beep rang up her single item. In the
few seconds that my action took the woman's eyes shifted hurriedly,
(10:27):
frantically between my face and the wig in the sea
through plastic. Yet despite looking right at me, she didn't
make eye contact. She was looking just beyond. This might
sound like a funny question, she asked, now looking up
at me with a solemn stare, despite the alleged humor
(10:47):
in her next words, but where did you get your shoes?
I like them? I looked down at my tired feet,
and then back up at her. My shoes were nothing
but ordinary black sneakers with white laces, and since she
had come in, I had been behind the register the
entire time. How did she see my shoes? I? Uh,
(11:09):
I started, got them at that little place on the
other side of the mall. With my finger, I pointed
in the direction of the store, But the moment was
such a whirlwind that I could have been completely backward
for all I knew. Okay, the woman said softly. I
nodded and shoved her wig into a bag. Getting your
(11:32):
costume all ready to go, I asked. My voice was
slightly choked, but I hoped her burning eyes would avoid
me if the question distracted her enough, yes, she said,
Her eyes still stared. Worse, they scanned me, every inch
of me. What are you going to be? I asked.
(11:55):
The woman smiled, not to me, but to herself. It
wasn't a happy one, more ironic than anything else, as
if I had said something funny. Then her smile faded
and her face became as blank as unmarked paper. Do
you think the farmer really knows what crop he's reaping?
(12:16):
She glanced up fearfully at the small skeleton draped in
black gauze dangling above my head and swallowed. Come again,
I asked. By then, her bagged up wig was dangling
from my extended hand. But the woman didn't even seem
to notice the farmer, she repeated, as if I knew
(12:37):
what she was talking about. He's not evil or angry
when he does it, she said, He just does it.
Maybe he's even apathetic when he does. She continued, seeming
to be talking to herself. Then she locked her burning
eyes on too mine. Do you think he'd even notice
(12:57):
or mind if some wheat got thrown into the fire
with the chaff. The harvest is plentiful, after all, I stammered,
looking for words to say to her. All that came
out was I, Ah, I don't know what you're talking about, ma'am. Sorry.
The woman nodded and took the bag from me. What
(13:21):
time do you get off? My eyes surely must have
widened at this, but the woman wasn't looking at me anymore. I, uh,
not for a while, I lied. She nodded again. You've
got a lot of time yet, she said. And I
couldn't tell if it was a question or statement. I
(13:43):
answered the former. Yeah, I said, spend it well, Michel,
the woman replied, and with that she turned and left
the store. I let out a deep sigh of relief,
just as the deep voice, for the last time that
night echoed, beware turn back now. Suffice it to say,
(14:03):
I had my manager escort me to my bike that night.
Neither of us saw the woman as I had described
her to my boss. Tired, looking about my height, and
wearing an orange collared shirt sort of like what we've
got on, he asked me, pulling at the fabric covering
his chest. Yeah, actually, I said, realizing it hadn't even
(14:25):
dawned on me that she wore a similar shade. For
all any one knew she was an employee of the
pop up, just like me, I then clarified, except for
the I choked as my hand grasped at the orange
cloth just above my breast. What's wrong, my manager asked,
(14:46):
both of us, stopping in our tracks half way across
the parking lot, drowned in an orange light from the
lamps above my h I fumbled my name tag. Oh,
he said, with a voice now resolved, and extended a
hand from his pocket. In an instant, you left this
in the breakroom after your lunch. He handed me the
(15:08):
tiny white piece of plastic, sporting both a tiny pumpkin
and my name along the front and a baby pin
on the back. I took it and swallowed. It wasn't
the loss of the name tag that had upset me,
but rather a question that entered my mind that I
just couldn't explain to him. How did that woman know
(15:28):
my name? Tee? Thanks? I answered him. My boss nodded
and continued walking. What did the crazy old hag get anyway?
He asked, with a smile on his lips, perhaps trying
to lighten the mood. Ay uh, I said, following him
at the heel and searching for the word A wig
(15:50):
really I nodded, Yeah, a blond one. He chuckled, like
putting lipstick on a pig. Probably, he said, with a
little grin. I nodded something like that. My manager agreed.
Maybe she was inspired, he said, pointing to my head,
(16:12):
my blonde hair. It looks good on you. I ignored
his clunky attempt at a compliment, maybe even a flirtation,
though he was significantly older. As Yet another mystery formed
inside my head. What was her costume going to be? Anyway?
Despite the thoughts racing through my mind like a steam engine,
(16:35):
I thanked my boss and hopped onto my bike. He
bid me a good night and told me to get
some rest for the final final stretch, he joked. The
entire ride home, the thought wouldn't shake me. Maybe the
woman had overheard one of my co workers use my
name and thought it'd be polite to use it herself.
(16:56):
Then again, however, I was the only one on the
register that night. Even stranger was the wig and the
orange shirt and the question about my shoes. Was this
mystery woman stalking me? Had she followed me to work?
Would she follow me home? There was no one over
(17:16):
my shoulder, so much as I could see and with
that question cleared, I stomped down onto the pedal under
my right foot and lifted my butt from the seat
as the wind raked through my blonde hair. Every few
seconds or so, i'd glance over my shoulder to make
sure no one was trailing me. They weren't. She wasn't.
(17:39):
The next day, which was Halloween itself, if memory serves,
my boss didn't even acknowledge the events of the night prior.
The store was packed, of course, and I don't fully
blame him. I too got caught up in it all,
and frankly, it was a good thing. The endless flow
of customers distracted me from the intruding thoughts of the
(18:02):
staring eyed woman, who i'd glance around the store every
few minutes or so to make sure wasn't there. She wasn't,
and by the end of the day I had forgotten
all about her until that night, that is, Michel, Yeah,
I remember asking as I flicked my sneakers off one
by one and plopped onto my couch with both a
(18:23):
sigh and a whimper. The time was nearly nine, I think,
and I was too tired to entertain the kids roaming
the street, so I left a bowl of candy on
a stool outside. My friend Janet on the other line,
let go of her breath and then caught it again
on the other line. Oh thank god, she said, relieved.
(18:44):
I thought I saw you on my drive home. Saw me,
I asked, where. An exhale of her breath filled my ear,
seemingly warming it in an accident. God, it was horrible,
she said, said, with a voice still shaky. I'm just
glad it wasn't you. No, I'm fine, I said, grasping
(19:07):
the phone tighter. Some sweat had accumulated on my palm
as I muttered my next dreadful question. Why did it
looked like I was hurt? Mm hmm, Janet said. The
lady was wearing the same work shirt and everything. I
couldn't breathe, nor could I move blonde hair, yeah, Janet said,
(19:33):
just like yours. I pulled over as soon as I
saw it. I know you take that way to and
from the mall. And it looked like the woman was
crossing the street and got hit or something. Is she
I began to say, dead. I don't know how she
could be alive. Janet replied, there was a lot of blood.
(19:56):
Oh God, I'm just so glad it wasn't you. Shell
m me too, I said, and thanked her for checking
in on me. I asked her where the accident had
taken place, which wasn't far from my apartment, and after
I hung up, I got onto my bike and fled there.
Of course, by the time I arrived, the victim had
(20:17):
been taken off to the hospital. However, the blood was
still on the road. There was a streak from the
cross walk to the mangled bike some hundred yards down
the road, blocked off by a red and blue flashing
police cruiser and yellow caution tape. The sight made my
stomach heavy, like I had swallowed a dumbbell. I had
(20:38):
just taken that road, that cross walk, but half an
hour ago. It was quiet and tranquil, then to the
point where you could hear costumed kids giggling. Now it
was a crime scene, gory and chaotic. The bike certainly
looked like mine too. It was red, with silver spokes
(20:59):
and a black seat. Every now and again, the back wheel,
stuck high in the air, would spin on account of
the chilly breeze that filled the darkened streets. The sight
was a grisly reminder that all the work I was doing,
all the long hours, was worth it. I was saving
(21:19):
up for a car, after all. Despite my father, who
had always been a real red blooded enthusiast about hot
rods and a subscription holder to Popular Mechanics, and his
insistence that he'd just outright by me, one poor as
I was, I was, in equal measure stubborn. I needed
to do it, do something on my own. A few
(21:43):
days later, I got my hands on a copy of
the local paper and flipped it to the obituary section
in morbid curiosity. Sure enough, the woman named Carrie Morgan
who was struck and killed that night was the same
staring eyed one I had met at the costume store.
I figured as much, and though I never saw her,
(22:05):
I knew she had been wearing the orange collared shirt
and the blond wig that I had sold her. Janet
told me as much. She probably had also been wearing
my same shoes if she followed my vague directions. Hell,
maybe even my underwear too. Yet, despite some of the
answers I had and still do, there are more questions
(22:28):
that I fear will never be accounted for, such as
the woman's strange words the night before she died, or
the way she had stared at me. Even more troubling
were the coincidences that surrounded the whole thing, like how
she had gone to the same doctor I had, and
that two months prior to her death she was diagnosed
(22:49):
with lung cancer. Stranger. After probing my doctor, a general practitioner,
for any information he could afford me on the woman,
which wasn't much given doctor patient confidentiality, I was directed
to a donation fund in her honor that would garner
support for her surviving family members and daughter, her only child,
(23:11):
who was only twenty six. The strange part about the
fundraiser was an anonymous donation of about twenty thousand dollars
I found on the books. Coincidentally, the next time I
visited my father, who lived in the same county at
the time, his vintage sports car, which he had kept
in the garage since I was six years old, was
(23:31):
eerily nowhere to be seen. Where's the Corvette, Dad, I
had asked him. This must have been a few weeks
after Halloween, after the accident, and after I had discovered
the mysterious anonymous donation. Oh that old thing, he hoarsely chuckled,
fella down the road aways was practically beggin me for it.
(23:53):
Made a good offer. I just couldn't refuse. And if
I could have, your mother certainly wouldn't have. I nodded.
What do those old cars go for? Anyway? Quite unlike
my father and his perpetual gleam, his lips stiffened straight well,
he drawled. I'd say they could go anywhere from a
(24:14):
couple grand to upwards of fifty thousand. I nodded again,
somewhat coldly, And how much did you get for yours?
His smile was long gone now. He patted the table
between us with his palm wrinkled and tan, let's not
talk money at the table, shell, Ok, I didn't nod.
(24:40):
What did you do with it? With what the money?
I said? You said it was a good offer. What'd
you do with it? My father did his best to
force a smile, and then clapped his hand on top
of mine. Don't worry your head with all that, Michel,
he said. His face grew long and hollow. Let's just
(25:04):
be grateful for what we have, all right, that we're
all together again. My breath stopped as he began to eat.
He knew something that I didn't, and until his final
day he never did tell me what it was. I
suppose there's some questions we all take to the grave,
never knowing why on earth things happened the way they did. However,
(25:28):
of all the things I did know and still do
about what happened all those years ago, one thing's for certain.
That Halloween, Carrie Morgan's costume had been of me.
Carrie Morgan's Halloween costume by mac Ralston. During high school
and throughout my college years, retail work and I were
no strangers. In fact, you might have even been able
to call us roommates, judging by how often the jobs
came home with me. No, I didn't have to stock
shelves in my living room, which was essentially the entirety
(00:23):
of my apartment at the time, nor would you've caught
me bagging items beside the sink, which was also in
the living room. Somehow, work accompanied me home for the
most part, mentally. Sometimes there'd be physical evidence, sure, especially
if the day's customer had shouted spit onto my uniform.
(00:43):
But for the most part, my home work was merely
trying to forget about work at home despite my best efforts. However,
there's one day of retail work from my youth I'll
likely never forget so long as I live. Sometimes, if
truth be told, I'm glad I remember it. Other times, however,
(01:04):
I'm not so sure. It's just left me with too
many questions, some of which I know will never be
answered to those who ask, which isn't many. Most of
my jobs were what I like to call odds and ends,
because the majority were but means to an end, namely money,
and most were most certainly odd. I recall rather fondly
(01:27):
my summer days at the local put putt golf course,
watching kids and their parents fail to get a neon
pink ball through an alligator's mouth, as I also retain
warm memories of life guarding at the local rec center's pool,
where I was similarly nothing more than a passive observer,
this time with a whistle around my neck that I
seldom ever blew. The jobs less desirable, but nevertheless well
(01:51):
paying were the seasonal retail ones where most of my
headaches came from. The general public can be a rather
loathsome bunch, especially at times of year when you'd expect otherwise.
Christmas comes to mind first and foremost. Nothing says peace
on earth and good will toward men, like two middle
(02:11):
aged women brawling over a plush care bear. The thing
ripped in two, if memory serves, and both women were
detained by the mall security. This was all before my
lunch break Monstermart. Why I ever agreed to work the
register of the pop up halloween store I believe called
(02:32):
Monster Mart at the same mall. The following fall is
beyond me. Actually it isn't. The ANSWER's quite simple, really.
If there was a steady paycheck involved, so was I,
even if that meant filling up a fog machine every
morning and hearing the same deep voice bellow the ever
so generic beware turn back, now followed by a fit
(02:56):
of evil laughter, every time some one stepped through the doorway.
I must have heard it six thousand times by the
time November rolled around, and I used to joke that
inhaling that damp smelling fog for about a month straight
would probably give me cancer. I don't joke about that
kind of thing anymore. A few days before Halloween, In fact,
(03:20):
it might have been the day before, though I can't
fully remember. I recall working the front register, as I
so often did. It was a time we all called
the final stretch, not only because we'd all need a
good one following a long day of standing on our feet,
but also because those last few days before Halloween were
(03:41):
some of the busiest. Everyone waits until the last minute
to pick out their costume and then loves to complain
that we didn't have it in their size or carry
the right accessories. Despite my manager's insistence not to. For
those kinds of people, I'd happily direct them to the
nearest department store under my breath, out of sight, out
(04:04):
of mind, at least until I got back home, where
all of the day's interactions would come flooding back to me,
such as the time the woman with the little girl
wrapped around her leg insisted that the ring I was
wearing must have been sold in the store. Ma'am, this
is my personal ring, I explained to her, as I
(04:25):
lifted my hand to showcase it. I got it somewhere else. Well,
you shouldn't be flashing it around if you can't even
buy it here, I remember her exclaiming. Her hands were
just about over her head, and the little girl between
her legs looked to be on the brink of tears.
It's teasing the kids, specially in a costume store. I
(04:48):
was about to reply something like, well, it isn't a
jewelry store, now, is it, But the reddened face of
the young girl peering up at me choked out my
voice from speaking. The line behind the woman and her
presumed daughter nearly reached the front door, spread with spider
webs and the aforementioned beware turn back now shouting strobe light,
(05:12):
and I could tell the other customers were getting impatient.
I sighed and extended my hand down, which had cupped
something from a finger on the other here, I said
to the little girl, opening my hand to reveal the
ring on my palm. I can have it, the girl asked.
All these years later, I can still hear her sweet
(05:35):
little voice. I nodded, mum hum, I said, what are
you going to be for Halloween? She looked up at
the woman and then back to me. A princess. I smiled,
and the woman, still clearly and visibly heated, twitched a
slight grin onto her face. Well, Halloween must have come early,
(05:57):
I said, because you already are a princess. The girl
smiled and took the ring, sliding it onto her little finger.
As I suspected, it was far too big, but she
didn't seem to mind. All the while, I had successfully
done the impossible in a retail job, I shut the
whining customer up. All the woman could do, in fact,
(06:18):
was not a half baked thank you, and walk off
a few seconds later, as the next customer approached the counter,
I heard the strobe light, which must have been on
a motion censor bid them a merry beware turn back
now as they left. That was rather nice of you,
the man before me said, dropping three masks onto the countertop.
(06:43):
I shrugged and began scanning, starting with the witch one.
The customer's always right, right, I chuckled. The man did too.
He then started to say something, but I was no
longer paying attention, despite my hands, going through the motions
and moving toward the jack O lantern. At the opposite
end of the store, past the rows and rows of
(07:06):
orange and purple lights, the hanging spiders, and the floating ghuls,
stood a woman. She had been staring directly at me
until I lifted my head to notice. Then, as if
trying to avert my gaze, she blinked and started glancing
about everywhere but in my direction. The initial sight of
(07:28):
her chilled me more than it should have. At first glance,
her face blended in with the dozens of masks along
the back walls which I had stalked just a day prior.
Like the Dracula or the Mummy or the three or
so zombies, her face was a palish white with somewhat
sunken cheeks. Her eyes were dark but full of that
(07:50):
alluring mystery that compelled me to keep watch, despite the
fact that she was just some lady, nothing more than
another customer. While I was in it, that moment of
locking eyes with her felt eternal. In reality, it was
probably just a couple of seconds. Uh yeah, I said,
(08:12):
responding to the man's question that I didn't hear. Luckily
that was the right answer, because the man nodded, thanked me,
and took the bag from my hand. I didn't even
notice I had been holding it. I also didn't realize
I had slipped his receipt inside. Then again, when you
do that kind of work for as long as I had,
it eventually becomes muscle memory. The exchanges all blurred together,
(08:36):
just as the customer's faces did, and I can no
more distinctly recall their voices, aside from that of the
little girl, than I could the lyrics to the Monster Mash,
despite having listened to it twelve times a day for
over a month. I say all of this with one exception,
the staring woman. Her face and her voice will never
(08:58):
escape me. As the line continued to move, I noticed
over the shoulders of the next five or so customers
that the woman had remained in her placement at the
back of the store. At the back of the line.
She had something in her hand, maybe something she was
trying to buy, but kept letting each of the approaching
customers cut her in line. This continued for about half
(09:22):
an hour, until the store was near closing and the
crowds had all gone home, every one but the woman.
Finally she had taken her place in line, and as
the last of the customers swiped their cards or unwrinkled
their cash, I watched as she slowly approached my counter.
I could also now see what she had been carrying,
(09:44):
A blond wig. She had waited some forty five minutes
for a cheap blond wig. Find everything all right, I
finally asked her, as she placed the wig gently atop
the counter. Normally, the whole back and forth the niceties,
the how are you good? How are you thing came
(10:04):
off my tongue as smooth as butter. Now I had
to work for it, as if each syllable needed to
be articulated to my question. The woman simply nodded my
hand trembling, despite not knowing why. I took the scanner
and a beep rang up her single item. In the
few seconds that my action took the woman's eyes shifted hurriedly,
(10:27):
frantically between my face and the wig in the sea
through plastic. Yet despite looking right at me, she didn't
make eye contact. She was looking just beyond. This might
sound like a funny question, she asked, now looking up
at me with a solemn stare, despite the alleged humor
(10:47):
in her next words, but where did you get your shoes?
I like them? I looked down at my tired feet,
and then back up at her. My shoes were nothing
but ordinary black sneakers with white laces, and since she
had come in, I had been behind the register the
entire time. How did she see my shoes? I? Uh,
(11:09):
I started, got them at that little place on the
other side of the mall. With my finger, I pointed
in the direction of the store, But the moment was
such a whirlwind that I could have been completely backward
for all I knew. Okay, the woman said softly. I
nodded and shoved her wig into a bag. Getting your
(11:32):
costume all ready to go, I asked. My voice was
slightly choked, but I hoped her burning eyes would avoid
me if the question distracted her enough, yes, she said,
Her eyes still stared. Worse, they scanned me, every inch
of me. What are you going to be? I asked.
(11:55):
The woman smiled, not to me, but to herself. It
wasn't a happy one, more ironic than anything else, as
if I had said something funny. Then her smile faded
and her face became as blank as unmarked paper. Do
you think the farmer really knows what crop he's reaping?
(12:16):
She glanced up fearfully at the small skeleton draped in
black gauze dangling above my head and swallowed. Come again,
I asked. By then, her bagged up wig was dangling
from my extended hand. But the woman didn't even seem
to notice the farmer, she repeated, as if I knew
(12:37):
what she was talking about. He's not evil or angry
when he does it, she said, He just does it.
Maybe he's even apathetic when he does. She continued, seeming
to be talking to herself. Then she locked her burning
eyes on too mine. Do you think he'd even notice
(12:57):
or mind if some wheat got thrown into the fire
with the chaff. The harvest is plentiful, after all, I stammered,
looking for words to say to her. All that came
out was I, Ah, I don't know what you're talking about, ma'am. Sorry.
The woman nodded and took the bag from me. What
(13:21):
time do you get off? My eyes surely must have
widened at this, but the woman wasn't looking at me anymore. I, uh,
not for a while, I lied. She nodded again. You've
got a lot of time yet, she said. And I
couldn't tell if it was a question or statement. I
(13:43):
answered the former. Yeah, I said, spend it well, Michel,
the woman replied, and with that she turned and left
the store. I let out a deep sigh of relief,
just as the deep voice, for the last time that
night echoed, beware turn back now. Suffice it to say,
(14:03):
I had my manager escort me to my bike that night.
Neither of us saw the woman as I had described
her to my boss. Tired, looking about my height, and
wearing an orange collared shirt sort of like what we've
got on, he asked me, pulling at the fabric covering
his chest. Yeah, actually, I said, realizing it hadn't even
(14:25):
dawned on me that she wore a similar shade. For
all any one knew she was an employee of the
pop up, just like me, I then clarified, except for
the I choked as my hand grasped at the orange
cloth just above my breast. What's wrong, my manager asked,
(14:46):
both of us, stopping in our tracks half way across
the parking lot, drowned in an orange light from the
lamps above my h I fumbled my name tag. Oh,
he said, with a voice now resolved, and extended a
hand from his pocket. In an instant, you left this
in the breakroom after your lunch. He handed me the
(15:08):
tiny white piece of plastic, sporting both a tiny pumpkin
and my name along the front and a baby pin
on the back. I took it and swallowed. It wasn't
the loss of the name tag that had upset me,
but rather a question that entered my mind that I
just couldn't explain to him. How did that woman know
(15:28):
my name? Tee? Thanks? I answered him. My boss nodded
and continued walking. What did the crazy old hag get anyway?
He asked, with a smile on his lips, perhaps trying
to lighten the mood. Ay uh, I said, following him
at the heel and searching for the word A wig
(15:50):
really I nodded, Yeah, a blond one. He chuckled, like
putting lipstick on a pig. Probably, he said, with a
little grin. I nodded something like that. My manager agreed.
Maybe she was inspired, he said, pointing to my head,
(16:12):
my blonde hair. It looks good on you. I ignored
his clunky attempt at a compliment, maybe even a flirtation,
though he was significantly older. As Yet another mystery formed
inside my head. What was her costume going to be? Anyway?
Despite the thoughts racing through my mind like a steam engine,
(16:35):
I thanked my boss and hopped onto my bike. He
bid me a good night and told me to get
some rest for the final final stretch, he joked. The
entire ride home, the thought wouldn't shake me. Maybe the
woman had overheard one of my co workers use my
name and thought it'd be polite to use it herself.
(16:56):
Then again, however, I was the only one on the
register that night. Even stranger was the wig and the
orange shirt and the question about my shoes. Was this
mystery woman stalking me? Had she followed me to work?
Would she follow me home? There was no one over
(17:16):
my shoulder, so much as I could see and with
that question cleared, I stomped down onto the pedal under
my right foot and lifted my butt from the seat
as the wind raked through my blonde hair. Every few
seconds or so, i'd glance over my shoulder to make
sure no one was trailing me. They weren't. She wasn't.
(17:39):
The next day, which was Halloween itself, if memory serves,
my boss didn't even acknowledge the events of the night prior.
The store was packed, of course, and I don't fully
blame him. I too got caught up in it all,
and frankly, it was a good thing. The endless flow
of customers distracted me from the intruding thoughts of the
(18:02):
staring eyed woman, who i'd glance around the store every
few minutes or so to make sure wasn't there. She wasn't,
and by the end of the day I had forgotten
all about her until that night, that is, Michel, Yeah,
I remember asking as I flicked my sneakers off one
by one and plopped onto my couch with both a
(18:23):
sigh and a whimper. The time was nearly nine, I think,
and I was too tired to entertain the kids roaming
the street, so I left a bowl of candy on
a stool outside. My friend Janet on the other line,
let go of her breath and then caught it again
on the other line. Oh thank god, she said, relieved.
(18:44):
I thought I saw you on my drive home. Saw me,
I asked, where. An exhale of her breath filled my ear,
seemingly warming it in an accident. God, it was horrible,
she said, said, with a voice still shaky. I'm just
glad it wasn't you. No, I'm fine, I said, grasping
(19:07):
the phone tighter. Some sweat had accumulated on my palm
as I muttered my next dreadful question. Why did it
looked like I was hurt? Mm hmm, Janet said. The
lady was wearing the same work shirt and everything. I
couldn't breathe, nor could I move blonde hair, yeah, Janet said,
(19:33):
just like yours. I pulled over as soon as I
saw it. I know you take that way to and
from the mall. And it looked like the woman was
crossing the street and got hit or something. Is she
I began to say, dead. I don't know how she
could be alive. Janet replied, there was a lot of blood.
(19:56):
Oh God, I'm just so glad it wasn't you. Shell
m me too, I said, and thanked her for checking
in on me. I asked her where the accident had
taken place, which wasn't far from my apartment, and after
I hung up, I got onto my bike and fled there.
Of course, by the time I arrived, the victim had
(20:17):
been taken off to the hospital. However, the blood was
still on the road. There was a streak from the
cross walk to the mangled bike some hundred yards down
the road, blocked off by a red and blue flashing
police cruiser and yellow caution tape. The sight made my
stomach heavy, like I had swallowed a dumbbell. I had
(20:38):
just taken that road, that cross walk, but half an
hour ago. It was quiet and tranquil, then to the
point where you could hear costumed kids giggling. Now it
was a crime scene, gory and chaotic. The bike certainly
looked like mine too. It was red, with silver spokes
(20:59):
and a black seat. Every now and again, the back wheel,
stuck high in the air, would spin on account of
the chilly breeze that filled the darkened streets. The sight
was a grisly reminder that all the work I was doing,
all the long hours, was worth it. I was saving
(21:19):
up for a car, after all. Despite my father, who
had always been a real red blooded enthusiast about hot
rods and a subscription holder to Popular Mechanics, and his
insistence that he'd just outright by me, one poor as
I was, I was, in equal measure stubborn. I needed
to do it, do something on my own. A few
(21:43):
days later, I got my hands on a copy of
the local paper and flipped it to the obituary section
in morbid curiosity. Sure enough, the woman named Carrie Morgan
who was struck and killed that night was the same
staring eyed one I had met at the costume store.
I figured as much, and though I never saw her,
(22:05):
I knew she had been wearing the orange collared shirt
and the blond wig that I had sold her. Janet
told me as much. She probably had also been wearing
my same shoes if she followed my vague directions. Hell,
maybe even my underwear too. Yet, despite some of the
answers I had and still do, there are more questions
(22:28):
that I fear will never be accounted for, such as
the woman's strange words the night before she died, or
the way she had stared at me. Even more troubling
were the coincidences that surrounded the whole thing, like how
she had gone to the same doctor I had, and
that two months prior to her death she was diagnosed
(22:49):
with lung cancer. Stranger. After probing my doctor, a general practitioner,
for any information he could afford me on the woman,
which wasn't much given doctor patient confidentiality, I was directed
to a donation fund in her honor that would garner
support for her surviving family members and daughter, her only child,
(23:11):
who was only twenty six. The strange part about the
fundraiser was an anonymous donation of about twenty thousand dollars
I found on the books. Coincidentally, the next time I
visited my father, who lived in the same county at
the time, his vintage sports car, which he had kept
in the garage since I was six years old, was
(23:31):
eerily nowhere to be seen. Where's the Corvette, Dad, I
had asked him. This must have been a few weeks
after Halloween, after the accident, and after I had discovered
the mysterious anonymous donation. Oh that old thing, he hoarsely chuckled,
fella down the road aways was practically beggin me for it.
(23:53):
Made a good offer. I just couldn't refuse. And if
I could have, your mother certainly wouldn't have. I nodded.
What do those old cars go for? Anyway? Quite unlike
my father and his perpetual gleam, his lips stiffened straight well,
he drawled. I'd say they could go anywhere from a
(24:14):
couple grand to upwards of fifty thousand. I nodded again,
somewhat coldly, And how much did you get for yours?
His smile was long gone now. He patted the table
between us with his palm wrinkled and tan, let's not
talk money at the table, shell, Ok, I didn't nod.
(24:40):
What did you do with it? With what the money?
I said? You said it was a good offer. What'd
you do with it? My father did his best to
force a smile, and then clapped his hand on top
of mine. Don't worry your head with all that, Michel,
he said. His face grew long and hollow. Let's just
(25:04):
be grateful for what we have, all right, that we're
all together again. My breath stopped as he began to eat.
He knew something that I didn't, and until his final
day he never did tell me what it was. I
suppose there's some questions we all take to the grave,
never knowing why on earth things happened the way they did. However,
(25:28):
of all the things I did know and still do
about what happened all those years ago, one thing's for certain.
That Halloween, Carrie Morgan's costume had been of me.
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