Tonight is Halloween when the veil between our world and the Other Side wears thin. In our quiet, isolated town in Tennessee, it’s also the night the Bone Collector comes—a sinister presence creeping through the shadows with the promise of dread.

I remember those nights vividly from my childhood—the tense silence, the cold grip of fear in the air. I was fortunate then, spared from a darker fate. But now, I have my own children, sleeping peacefully upstairs, blissfully unaware of what stirs in the night. My wife and I sit by the fire, its flickering light casting long shadows on the walls. We keep silent vigil, hoping—praying—that we won’t hear the dreaded knock at the door.

They say the Bone Collector dwells deep in the forest, hidden away where no one dares to venture—and those who have never returned to tell the tale. No one knows what he truly looks like. The few whispers that exist are just that—rumors, half-forgotten stories passed down through trembling lips. Some claim he wears a black hood, shrouded in darkness like the Grim Reaper, while others insist he appears as nothing more than a frail old man. 

But one thing is sure: when he knocks at your door at the stroke of midnight, when Halloween fully settles over the town, you must answer. He only asks once, and no one has ever dared refuse him. Denial isn’t an option—those who have answered know this, though they never speak of it afterward. The silence they carry is all the warning we need.

The clock ticks toward midnight as my wife and I sit by the fire. It’s fifteen minutes to go, and the tension in the room is thick. She wrings her hands in silent anxiety, her knuckles white with fear, while I rub her back, trying to soothe her—but the truth is, I’m barely holding it together myself. 

Last year, the Bone Collector took Jonathan, the little boy next door. He was one of my son’s closest friends, and his absence still haunts this town. The year before that, it was old Mr. Harlan, who lived across town, plucked from his quiet life as if he were no more than a leaf on the wind. 

The Bone Collector makes no distinctions—age, race, gender, none of it matters. He takes what he needs, and our town has learned, year after year, that we have no say in the matter. We simply wait and hope we’re not the ones chosen.

We don’t ask why. We’ve long accepted that this is how things are in this town. Over the years, a few have tried to fight back, but it’s always been in vain. I remember the sheriff from my childhood—a man not from here, someone who couldn’t wrap his head around our grim reality. 

He was determined to stop it, convinced it was nothing more than superstition. He gathered a handful of locals, the few brave—or foolish—enough to join him. Not all of us agreed with his plan, but he didn’t listen. They ventured into the woods, armed with bravado and guns, hoping to end the nightmare.

That year, the Bone Collector took more than one body.

Beyond the town, deep in the woods, there’s a place where the remains of his victims lie scattered. It’s a sacred, eerie spot—a graveyard of bones, touched by something far older and darker than we can understand. A few of us have dared to go there, but none linger. The Bone Collector leaves his mark there, a silent reminder of what happens to those who fall into his grasp. 

As the clock ticks closer to midnight, just five minutes remain. The night outside is alive with the subtle sounds of the creeping things—the distant rustling of leaves, the occasional hoot of an owl, and the low, restless moos of the cows in the pasture. I glance out the window, where the moon casts a soft glow over the open field, painting everything in pale light. 

The fire crackles beside us, and I quietly add another log, watching the flames lick upward, casting flickering shadows across the room. Outside, the wind picks up; a faint, eerie howl that stirs the wind chimes into a soft, mournful tune. 

Suddenly, my wife erupts in anger, her fear boiling over into fury. “Screw this!” she shouts, her voice trembling. “This is insane! Every year, we sit here doing nothing; we just wait. I’m done with it!” 

She wasn’t born here—she doesn’t understand what she’s saying. The weight of her words hangs in the air, but I know better than to argue. I watch silently as she storms off toward the basement, muttering under her breath, her footsteps heavy with frustration. She’s going for the shotgun. I’ve seen this coming for years: the slow unraveling of her patience and helplessness finally driving her to this breaking point. 

I don’t try to stop her. I can’t calm her down, and I certainly can’t protect us from the Bone Collector. The futility of it all settled on me long ago. I’ve made my peace with it.

When she reappears, the shotgun clenched tightly in her hands, she glares at me, her voice laced with desperation. “Aren’t you going to do something? Don’t just sit there like some imbecile!”

I meet her gaze, my voice flat, emotionless. “There’s nothing we can do, sweetheart.” I’ve lived here for thirty years. I know what this town is, what this night means. We’re powerless against it. “We just have to hope the house gets passed over and pray that whatever sins we’ve committed aren’t enough to draw him here.” 

Her anger falters, but it doesn’t disappear. No matter how often spoken, the truth never seems to offer comfort.

Fueled by rage, my wife glares at the grandfather clock in the corner as its hands creep toward midnight. Her knuckles whiten as she tightens her grip on the shotgun, now pointed directly at the front door. 

“Fine,” she spits through clenched teeth. “If you’re not going to do anything, then I will. I’m tired of living in fear of something we can’t see.”

I remain silent, my eyes on her but my mind elsewhere. We’ve been through this before. The clock strikes midnight, and the air in the room thickens. Everything feels suspended in time; those first moments always drag out, and each second is stretching unbearably long. My heart pounds, but I don’t dare move.

She doesn’t look at me—her focus is entirely on the door, her gaze burning with defiance. Then, it happens. A soft tap. Not loud, but deliberate. Forceful.

My wife stiffens. “Who is it?” she shouts, her voice sharp with anger and fear. Silence.

Then, another tap. Just as gentle. Just as sure. But no reply.

Her fury boils over. “Who are you, you bastard?” she screams, her voice cracking with a mix of rage and terror. The shotgun trembles in her hands, but I know it won’t help.

We both wait, trapped in this moment, knowing full well who stands on the other side of that door.

She tightens her grip on the shotgun, the barrel unwavering as it points toward the door. With a steadying breath, she reaches for the doorknob; her knuckles still pale from the pressure. I stand behind her, watching, helpless but resolute. There’s no stopping this now.

The door creaks open like it has for so many others in this town before us. The cool night air rushes in, carrying an eerie stillness as if the world is holding its breath. Without a word, we step across the threshold, side by side, into the moonlit night. 

We stand there, facing the darkness. Waiting to meet the Bone Collector.

The End