The Midnight Hour

(A/N: How could I let a holiday practically dedicated to the horror genre without writing a short story sequel to Homewrecker? A couple of things to note, however, is that it's a sequel to the published version. So it takes place in 2019 because, you know, and Izzie's name is now Ginny. Okay, with that out of the way, enjoy revisiting Bronwyn and her friends for Halloween).
The crisp corners of amber colored leaves quietly scratched against the pavement, crunching underneath the soles of my shoes after I pulled into the driveway, an automatic voice echoing from the GPS system in the console that I had reached my destination as I took in the variegated shades of stone on the first floor, then the tawny wood logs of the winter cabin. Expansive windows stretched out, sunlight reflected against the panes of glass, obstructing my view inside, carved pumpkins out on the front porch, fake spiderwebs thrown over the shrubbery. Inflatable grim reapers hummed on the front lawn, ghosts attached and hung from the tree limbs as they shed their gold and red leaves from their branches.

My shoes clicked against the cobblestones as I approached the cabin. It was out of season, the grass on the lawn browning instead of blanketed in a thick layer of snow, white just barely tinging the mountains behind it, still bright with their autumn colors. There was a certain forsakenness to it, toward the end of October, even though the flickering lights trapped in the carved pumpkins and behind the windowpanes said differently.

The front door creaked open as I stepped foot on the porch seats, noting the caution tape tied around the railing with a small smile when a shape stepped out on the doormat and I glanced up. He stood there, adorned in a navy-blue jumpsuit with the collar flared around his neck, a mask obscuring his face from me, white and cracked. Matted, ginger hair fluttered in the cool breeze I felt against the back of my neck, the glint of a knife in his one hand. I smiled.

"John Carpenter would be proud," I remarked, watching as he tilted his head to the side.

It only lasted for a second before he reached his other hand up to pull up his mask, grinning before he even brought it up over his eyes. "Yeah?" he asked, glancing over my pale blue button-down blouse, torn over the shoulder with fake blood dried on my skin, the hair it took me several hours and at least four YouTube tutorials to perfect. He was about to say something when I held up my hand then took out from behind my back a bent hanger, with fake blood on the tip. "That's perfect."

"I thought so," I replied. "I think I want to break character for just one second, though."

He smiled. "We're just making our own adaption. I mean, there's already been, like, twenty Halloween sequels and reboots. That's the real horror here, you know. What they did to Michael Myers, not just him but also the epic creation John Carpenter initiated is—"

I stood on my tiptoes, reaching up and kissing him until I felt his surprise melting away and his lips responding to mine. "I know, Ethan."

"It's just still upsetting, even after all these years."

"Horror sequels normally are. It's why we never watch them, remember?"

His mask was still folded around his forehead, as he smiled softly, leaning back for a second to look me over again before touching my hair, layered in so much hairspray it was stiff against his fingers. "You know, I can't even get most people to listen to me talk about horror films, let alone wear costumes with me."

I wrinkled my nose. "What costume? These are just my normal clothes."

He nodded, biting back a smile. "And this is your new hairstyle, right?"

"It sure is. Private school has changed me that much. You just can't tell because you live three hours away," I told him, prodding him gently in the chest with my bent hanger. "But it does look pretty good, right? It took me, like, two hours to do. There's even a burn on the back of my neck from the curling iron."