Page 1 of Trick or Treat: The Rebirth
Prologue
Scarlett
The streets of Salem are hauntingly still, especially with Halloween just weeks away. The laughter of children playing outside has faded into silence. Homes stand barricaded, their occupants wary, yet the leaves still cling to their vibrant colors for dear life. A palpable sense of unease lingers in the air, a clear reminder of the horrors from a year back. The community still fears a serial killer is still at large, but I alone hold the truth: the four killers who once haunted this place are dead—and I’m the one who killed them.
I walk the dim, desolate street, my emotions dulled as the wind drives warm rain against my skin, soaking into my leggings and chilling me to the bone. A grimy shovel drags behindme, my grip on its handle tight and unyielding. With my free hand, I smooth my fingers over the white glass beads on the rosary hanging around my neck, relentlessly counting them until I've done it five times—a weird obsession I picked up since everything happened. Tears mix with the rain, streaming down my face, but I don’t feel like I’m crying. It’s strange. I feel normal. About as normal as someone like me can be. Taking a deep breath, I briefly close my eyes, continuing my familiar journey to Howard Street cemetery, knowing what awaits me beyond those comfortint old, iron gates.
Since Blade, Saint, Riley, and Nixon passed, I’ve become an absolute wreck. I still see them all around me. I hear them talking to me; they've never fully left. Each morning, the moment my eyes flutter open, I’m seized by paranoia and agitation, struggling to distinguish reality from illusion. I’m drowning in more medication than ever, but nothing seems to relieve the pain within me. The drugs make me numb. Sometimes they make me feel good. Other times they bring out a side of me that I used to be scared of—not anymore; I welcome the dark side, although it's more pitch fucking black than anything. I love who I am when I'm feeling like that, but it only happens a few random days.
Tonight is one of those days.
It took me a long time to gather the courage to visit their graves, but when I finally did, I felt a sliver of hope for healing. Despite the horrors they inflicted upon me and the monster I became because of them, I developed an attachment I couldn’t escape; against my better judgment, I fell in love with them in the darkest, most depraved sense. And I still fucking love them, even now.
Part of me wishes I had died the night they did. I never asked to be saved. I never wanted anyone’s help. I was ready to embrace death. I fucking accepted it. It was an eye for an eye,and I knew that going into it. I was prepared to die. I was waiting for it. And then, everything was fucking snatched away from me, igniting a rage within me that still fuels an unquenchable fire inside my heart to this day.
Now, I’m alone. Melanie and everyone else are gone, obviously. My father is in prison for the rest of his life for murdering my mother—the apple didn't fall far from the tree, apparently. At work, I see the pity in the way people look at me, and it fucking infuriates me. I have no one to confide in, no one to cry to, no one to release my frustrations on. But, at least my patients provide a distraction, a way to channel my emptiness. And at least they have me to help them with their struggles. I have... nothing and no one. What reason do I have to remain here?
As I approach the cemetery, the familiar tall, iron gates creak in the night, almost like a whispering welcome, like someone's been waiting for me. The laces of my black boots tap against the side of them as I enter the gates of hell, and my hand begins to sweat profusely around the shovel’s handle, nerves buzzing with anticipation as I get closer to their graves.
I want them home with me. I miss them, even though what they did to me ruined my fucking life. They loved me; I could feel it. As much as we all wanted to deny it, they loved me in the same fucked up way that I loved them.
I get to Saint and Blade's graves first, just staring at their headstones, goosebumps covering my body as I read the inscription on each side of the stone. I stick the shovel in the wet grass and begin to dig, thinking back on all the times we shared, good and bad.
The sound of the shovel scraping against the earth is arousing, almost hypnotic, and echoes in the stillness of the cemetery. Every thud from the metal against soil reverberates within me,merging memories with reality, blurring the lines between the past I can’t escape and the present that constricts me.
It feels like hours pass as I dig, the sweat mingling with rainwater running down my face, soaking my black leather jacket and leggings, but still, I push deeper. I’m not merely unearthing their remains; I’m searching for the lost fragments of my own shattered self. With every scoop, I toss aside clumps of wet dirt, battling against the grief threatening to consume me. Their memory is a heavy burden, and I want to reclaim it, to hold it in my hands where I can tether it back to life.
Suddenly, the clear sound of a twig snapping somewhere beyond the gravesite startles me from my task. My heart races as I look around, scanning the tombstones for the source of the disruption. The wind howls ominously through the trees, whispering secrets that throw my mind into a panic.
“Get a fucking grip,” I whisper harshly to myself, cursed with visions of their faces creeping into my mind, reminding me that I’m not alone. Not really. They’re here, in the way the air feels charged with their presence. There’s safety in that, even if it’s a twisted sense of comfort.
I push harder against the shovel, plunging it back into the ground. The sound of metal on stone echoes in my head—every memory suffocating yet bittersweet. But the rain has turned the earth muddy and stubborn, and my limbs feel heavy, making me curse under my breath.
“Come on, guys… where the fuck are you?” I plead as I struggle against the elements.
I wonder if they can hear me, and in that moment of desperation, I allow my mind to wander freely. Images flash before me: Blade’s haunting smile that ignited a spark of thrill and fear, Saint’s intense gaze that saw right into my soul, Nixon’s unyielding presence that made me feel safe amidst the chaos, and Riley, who wore kindness like armor amid ferocity.
They had meant the world to me; they still do. My obsession with their twisted sense of love is sickening, yet intoxicating. I want to bring them back. Maybe if I dig long enough, deep enough—maybe if I can just blend the living with the dead, I won’t have to bear this agonizing isolation any longer.
Time distorts as I dig, heart racing with blind hope. The rain pours harder, drenching me, each droplet reminding me I’m alive, that I’m fucking breathing. And then, just as the colors of dusk begin to sweep across the sky, my shovel strikes something solid—an unmistakable resistance.
Panic surges through me, drawing me back to reality. I drop to my knees, my heart pounding painfully against my ribcage as I scrape aside dirt with my trembling hands, exposing the coffin that lies beneath. I might be crossing a line, one that separates sanity from madness, but at this moment, all that matters is what is buried beneath the earth.
“Please,” I whisper, tears mingling with raindrops as their names tumble from my lips in a desperate chant. “Please don’t leave me. I need you.”
With bated breath, I reach for the latch—cold and rusted against my fingers. What have I done? What will I find? The boundaries of life and death are blurred, and as I lift the lid, a gust of wind slams through the cemetery, sending shivers down my spine. I pull back, heart racing with fear and anticipation, holding my breath as darkness seeps from the coffin like a fog enveloping my surroundings. The line between my desires and the reality of their demise begins to fade...
And just when I think I’m lost, when despair claws at my throat, I see their faces. Not as corpses, but through the veil of memory—a vivid reminder of who they were, how they loved me, how they broke me. My heart aches, but it's no longer haunted by the ghosts of who they were.
This doesn’t feel like a goodbye. It feels like the beginning of something twisted and beautiful—a chance to reclaim my own narrative, to descend deeper into this darkness together. I may be alone in this world, but if I can reach back and pull them from their graves, maybe we can find a way to be together again.
With determination spreading through me, I shove my trembling hands into the coffin, ready to grasp what is rightfully mine, whether the world approves or not. I will not just survive. I will reclaim Salem.
Now living in an abandoned church set far back from the main road surrounded by trees and peace, I've made it my own, and a place where no one will bother me. I love it here. Dark and eerie, cobwebs strung about in every corner in every room, even covering the beautiful stained glass windows around the church. I sleep in one of the rooms the nuns had, and have turned it into a cave of darkness and hell, which makes living in a church all the more entertaining.
Oh, I'm going to hell for sure. I killed people. Not just one person. I killed multiple people. I fucking deserve to go to hell. Until I get there, I'm going to do whatever the fuck I want. Maybe it'll get me there sooner.
Getting back to the church after days of digging up four graves just for a couple pieces of each body, I head right for the altar once I'm inside. I've turned it into more of a shrine for the guys,and as I pull their skulls and hands out of the bag and align them on the mantle perfectly, I light the black and red candles beside them and stand back to admire my new decor.
