20:07.

She feels like Little Red Riding Hood. Laughing her way to the main house, a basket on her arm.

No; a hamper. Romy corrects herself with a marked eye roll. Harvey’s parents are the type of people to leave a hamper in the guesthouse, for the convenience of their picnicking guests. Top-notch. Upper-crust. If she remembers correctly, they also own a dog called Colin.

‘Oh, darling, do bring some cucumber sarnies,’ Harvey shouted after her, to which she responded with a clump of mud. There were several peals of laughter, then, more sombrely, ‘And a washcloth.’

‘Sausage rolls, pumpkin,’ Hamza had added, in an odd, half-drunk falsetto. Marnie screeched her witching laugh, and was requesting elderflower water, in a thin glass bottle, when two more clumps of mud hit home.

The outrage squealed. Romy grinned, and skipped away. Unscrewing her hip flask, she washed her pill down with vodka, unappetising and warm. Now, she takes a sip, pushes it into her pocket, and strides through the clipped gardens. The night is frozen, but the moon is full, so at least she can find her way; the guesthouse cowers so close to the river, and at such a winding distance from the mansion, that it would seem, despite the picnic basket, as if the Blakes hated guests.

They do, Harvey snorted, into his glass of appropriated vintage wine, when she asked this earlier. I’m their perfect visitor, which is why I keep coming to stay. I keep myself to myself, make no noise, and pretend I don’t exist. He chuckled at his cleverness. Even better, if anyone asks to stay, they can reject them on the grounds that their son needs the solace. I’m oh-so-troubled, you know.

Now, as then, Romy flips them off. What a luxury; what a life. Rubbing her arms with vigorous friction, she speeds up through a moonlit glade, across the last snippet of grass. The house puffs out its chest above her. Unlocking the door, she slips inside. Warmth, glorious warmth; praise be to the ladies of the manor. She should have put her coat on before she left the guesthouse, but that’s by the by. She’ll always be forgetful with an end goal of food.

Raid the kitchen, raid the pantry. Why so much food? The house is shut for winter. It’s marvellous, of course, but way too much, even for ravenous beasts like Harvey’s friends on their trips to London. What a luxury.

What a life.

Romy fills the hamper with a greedy glee. Pungent cheeses, honey crackers, little jars of who-knows-what with names she can’t pronounce. If they’re gross, they’ll be a drinking game. A tropical fruit bowl, sliced meats, olive-flecked bread; she shrugs and takes it all. Maybe there’s an elf topping off the fresh supplies.

Thank you, little elf. Red wine from the wooden wall-rack, and she’s done, navigating her hungry way back to the door. The rush is kicking in, her grin a buzz from ear to ear as she lumbers out to the cold. Goddamn, the hamper’s heavy; goddamn, it doesn’t matter. The sky is pure and scudded with clouds, the sparkling grass alight with frost. Pop, pop, pop. Proud trees, the brittle river, glinting in the night. Smoke coiling up from the guesthouse chimney. Dusty. Perfect. Peace.

Distracted by buzzing beauty, at first, nothing seems wrong.

The door, though.

‘Marnie?’ Romy calls. The door stands open. After her cheeky mudslinging, she’d cheekily kicked it shut. ‘Harvey?’ Pausing on the threshold, she peers into the dark. ‘Hamza?’

It’s not just dark; it’s silent. Even the fire is shrivelling, despite Marnie’s talent for making it blaze. Romy sets the deadweight hamper down by her feet. Are they—

Music bursts into life in the dark. Romy flinches, swallows her gasp, and rolls her eyes; yes, they are. They’re trying to scare her. ‘You realise this is stupid, right?’ Shuffling the hamper inside, she shuts the door behind them. It is stupid; she’s Romy McFadden, king of Hallowe’en. She spent enough years terrorising Kira, a fact of which they’re well aware; last year, they became the new recipients. They can’t expect to make her scream.

And if they do, and think she won’t execute terrifying, pitiless revenge…well. Romy places a hand on her hip, fixing her face into fully fledged scorn. As her grandma used to say in her old snooty Britishness, Darling, more fool them.

‘Harvey.’ She bats at the wall for a light switch. Papillon of winter light, the song growls. To add insult to injury, it’s her favourite; it couldn’t scare her in a decade of Sundays. Are we dead when we have died? ‘Game over. I brought food for everyone, but I’ll eat it by myself. Gladly. Aha.’

The lights flick on. Romy folds her arms, set to throw contempt like darts.

The words never drop. Her eyes widen, to moons, planets, galaxy clusters. ‘Fuck.’ Stumbling backwards, she trips over the hamper, collides with the door, and crashes down. ‘Fuck.’ Her voice cracks hoarse. She can’t breathe. ‘Fuck.’

She’s Romy McFadden, king of Hallowe’en, and she screams, and screams, and screams.