Draculas Jam

Ken was running late for his shift at the Stoked Surf Radio studios, clutching a bag of leftover Halloween candy as he cut through the old coastal neighborhood. Fog rolled in thick as sea foam, swallowing the streetlights one by one. His shortcut led past the abandoned Mariner Houselocals whispered it was haunted, but Ken wasn’t about to let ghost stories slow him down. Halfway past the gate, a chorus of tiny voices chirped, “Trick or treat! Ken froze. A cluster of costumed kids stood on the porch, though he could’ve sworn the house had been empty for decades. Their masks didn’t look storeboughttoo detailed, too lifelikebut Ken, ever the good sport, handed out candy anyway. Each time he tried to leave, more children appeared. Their costumes grew stranger: cracked porcelain faces, seasoaked sailors, holloweyed ghouls. They tugged at his sleeves, circled him, giggled in voices that echoed wrong. The bag of candy grew lighter. The fog grew heavier. The house seemed to lean closer. Finally, Ken reached into the bag and found nothing. Not a single piece left. The giggling stopped. The children’s masks shiftednot removed, but changed, as if their faces underneath were pushing through. The air grew cold. A low growl rolled across the porch. From the doorway, a tall figure stepped forward, its silhouette stretching into something lupine. Yellow eyes glowed. Claws clicked on the warped wood. Ken backed away, heart pounding, wishing he’d taken the long route to the studio. The werewolf sniffed the air, then the empty candy bag, then him. “Sorry, buddy, Ken whispered. “No treats left. The creature lunged. The last thing Ken saw before the world spun was the moon breaking through the fogfull, bright, and far too late to save him.