A little, blonde boy, just turned eight, marched proudly down a country road to his home. Though a puffy jacket was pulled tight around his neck to block out the assault of cold wind, he wore a triumphant smile upon his face. He had just left the home of one Micah Deane, his best friend and comrade in the second grade, and he was internally satisfied that yes, his Halloween costume was much cooler than Micah's. After all, he thought, Micah was going to be Plastic Man, and that was obviously lame. Nobody dressed up as super heroes.

His scarecrow costume was in a shuffling white, plastic, grocery back, which he clenched tightly in his small hands. The boy's cheeks were a bright, rosy pink as he shuffled on home, eyes never wandering from his destination. Until he passed the graveyard.

The wind blew from one corner of the horizon to the other and pushed against the broken, old gate which hung in front of the community graveyard. It screeched in protest, echoing throughout the grounds, as the rusted hunk of black iron slowly lurched, then clanged against the connecting fence. As his eyes glanced over the dilapidated burial ground, the child's pace slowed. Behind it, the sun was just beginning to set, and long, purple wisps of cloud branched out from the orange sun like grasping fingers of bone. The wind blew softly on the ground catching dried, brown and yellow leaves and encouraging their way from one end of the graveyard to the other. The wind whistled, and the leaves shifted and floated, then hung in the air, each dancing separately, before flying off again to gather, while crunching, against the foot of this or that gravestone. Gravestones stuck up haphazardly out of the dead grass like they had been thrown there, and the focal point of the entire scene was small, dead tree sticking up right out of the center. Bark was chipped off it's sides and the leaves had long since fallen from its face. It was ugly and gnarled, twisting up out of the ground like a weed with too much ambition to cease growing. Its branches twisted out from its base, and as the falling sun caught it, an eerie shadow was cast along the ground. Long and thin, it stretched over the rises and falls of the graveyard's uneven ground until it fell, in black c-shape, like some ghostly hand, around one grave in the corner.

The boy's teeth chattered, and he only glanced once at the grave. He was curious enough to strain his young eyes. As soon as he finished reading the name, Mac O'Brien, Beloved Son, he turned and hurried on his way, forgetting his pride over the costume, and only thinking of the safety of his mother's warm arms. He didn't know that gravestone, or the name on it. He didn't know that October thirtieth was the anniversary. He did not know that four years previous, something terrible had happened in his town.

But the foreboding chill of Halloween night drove him to the protection of home. It would do the same to many children before the day officially passed. Because as soon as they were done collecting candy, mocking the images of devils and ghosts, and tempting the inner demons of fear and mystery within them, they would all go home. Once the masks come off, all they would want to do is be safe.

Tyrese Manson whistled as he walked about his house. He lived in a big, gray house in the middle of a rural/suburban community in northern Georgia. The place was a modest one-floor house, ideal for a young, single man outside of college but not yet ready for family life. He preferred small town life because that was what he had grown up in. In addition, he was a teacher at George Washington Middle School a few miles away.

The face of the twenty-nine year old math teacher almost glowed as he walked down his kitchen. Tyrese was a tall, thin black man. He had bushy hair and a attractive, well-kept beard covering his jaw. His trim swimmer's build was evident even beneath loose-fitting blue jeans and a faded, gray sweatshirt. Grabbing a grilled-cheese sandwich off the top of his stove, he munched on it as he paced over to some windows. Long fingers worked their way through a string of orange and green Christmas lights hanging on the sill. White spider webs were pulled from a plastic bag and strung up over doors and mantles. Finally he made his way outside.

Tyrese Manson had lived in Georgia for the past six years, moving there after receiving his teaching degree in California and growing up in Nebraska. He had always had a passion for children, often preferring their simple, fun-loving natures to the complex world of adults. His pay was one of the lowest in the county but he held the respect of his peers for never once having complained. His reasoning was that he had enough to live comfortably and at this point in his life he had no far reaching goals that required greater pension. Tyrese was one of those rare men in life. Those that are content with their place in life.

The sky on his side of town was a bright blue with little hints of yellow as the door shut behind him. The sun was just beginning to set and the autumn breeze was cool as it blew against the trees. The Manson house was one of the most festive in the area and that night many children would drag their parents the extra distance both for the ample amount of candy they would receive, but also just gape at the delicately carved jack 'o' lanterns, long spider-webs, and stuffed scarecrows in the big front yard.

He munched blissfully on his sandwich as he hung lights up over his front porch. So focused in his work, so set were his eyes on the wires he hung up over his door that nothing could snap him from his reverie. However, when he tried to bang a large nail over the doorframe to support the wire, he smashed his thumb with the hammer, and finally lost his focus. Thinking himself alone, he jumped off his large step-ladder to hold his damaged finger and bellow and curse enough to make the sudden, throbbing pain go away. After a few minutes, he jabbed it into his mouth, still wincing from his stupidity. This allowed him to see down the long path through the bushes that led up to his porch.

Down that path stood a silent young boy. A small, skin and bones black youth stood next to his mailbox staring blankly, and directly at him. For no reason, a chill ran up Tyrese's back at the thought that he had not heard or seen this child coming up the street. And the way the kid stood so soundlessly, not moving, just watching him...

"Hey, kid!," he called out warmly. "Halloween's not started yet! I don't have any candy for you, man!"

The boy stood still for a moment. He wore baggy blue jeans and scratched up tennis shoes. A white undershirt was visible from beneath a dirty, sweatshirt. His hands were in his pockets and his eyes gazed fully at Tyrese. Then, slowly but deliberately, he started to move forward down the path.

Tyrese checked the boy out quizzically as he made his way up to the front porch. As the kids' feet scratched the stone walkway, Tyrese gave his clothes the once-over. He started to wonder if, seeing as how he couldn't remember this child from school, perhaps he was homeless. His outfit definitely looked like it hadn't been washed in some time.

"Some costume, there," he joked again once the boy reached the stairs. "Now, what are you? A ghost? Frankenstein, maybe?"

"My name's Corey Jobe," the boy stated, no tone to his voice.

Tyrese let the joke drop and introduced himself.

"I know who you are," Corey said.

The matter of fact attitude in the boy's statement caught Tyrese off guard. He looked around the yard uncomfortably, feeling that the sky had grown a bit darker without him noticing. He searched Corey's face for some kind of clue to his story, but found none. "Oh, really? And how do you know me?"

Corey's eyes shifted around the yard. "Doesn't matter," he said, unsure of himself. "I just do..."

They both waited.

..."Don't kill Wayne Carey tonight."

A twig snapped behind the yard as some small animal stepped on it, but at the exact same moment, Tyrese's entire facial expression changed. His mouth dropped and his eyes raged. His two large fists reached out and grabbed the neck of Corey's sweatshirt violently. He whipped the small child around to cover view of the kids body with his own larger one. He checked the street for passengers tonight.

"What did you say? How do you know about Wayne Carey?!," he breathed in a harsh whisper.

Corey's eyes were wide in fear, but he visually pushed the emotion away. He looked into Tyrese's eyes. "I could tell you but it wouldn't matter. I don't have a lot of time and you have even less. Just listen to me. The vengeance isn't worth it. You haven't been able to push away your friends death and move on but you have to now. There is no other option and I am dead serious when I say this."

The older man heaved and seethed as his eyes bore holes into Corey but he continued. "You'll die. There are forces beyond your control or mine and they're watching you. They're how I know things about you... that your favorite color is purple, the dog you killed by accident, with your first set of arrows, and about Mac-"

"Don't talk about Mac!," Tyrese hissed. "You don't know anything about him! And you don't know anything about me! Now what's your game-?"

"The ghost!," Corey yelled, fighting to free himself from Tyrese's grip. "The one you've seen on TV. You know exactly who I'm talking about. He'll kill you!..."

"...You'll die Tyrese. Please, I swear to God, you'll die..."

"Shut up!," Tyrese's voice finally broke, and he screamed at the boy in his hands. His eyes flared confusedly, in a rage. He turned around and shoved Corey strongly off his porch. Corey stumbled down the stairs and fell but the older man didn't wait for him to get up. He started down the stairs trying the chase the mysterious messenger off.

"Shut up! You don't know anything about me! Get out of here! Get off my property and don't come back!"

Corey ran away down the path back to the mailbox. As he looked back, a sad look in his eyes, Tyrese was still back at his porch, fists raised in the air as he yelled down the length of the yard. Corey turned his gaze from the man and marched off down the street.

October thirtieth, four years previous.

They had been in a bar, one of the few operating in the little town. The establishment was nice. A respectable place without the snootiness of an upscale lounge or the seedy, smokey atmosphere common in many taverns. The kind of place an upstanding member of the community could take their kids to and let them run around back at the pinball games with a fist full of quarters. This night, however, it was late, and only the three friends sat and talked, with a trucker down at the far corner finishing up a beer and the bartender cleaning glasses quietely behind the counter. A small TV buzzed quietly in the corner.

A young Tyrese Manson sat with two other people. He looked more uptight than he would years down the road, as age had not yet taught him the virtue of a calm mind. Square glasses slid down his nose as he sipped a beer and chatted. His long legs were stretched out over the barstool in black slacks with a white button up shirt, sleeves rolled up, and a black tie loosened on his neck. He was a working man and he looked the part.

The other two were more casual. A young man and young woman sat next to him and peeled peanuts as they drank and laughed. They sat close to each other, the man with his arms around the woman. Their names were Mac and Hannah.

Smoke still lingered around the cieling as they shot the breeze like the old friends that they were.

"You're really not going to go?," Mac asked as he adjusted his faded baseball cap over a patch of tussled brown hair.

"Look, it's not a big deal," Tyrese tried to explain to his friends. "There's another dig happening next summer. I can play archeaologist then. But I can't take off that much time from work. They won't let me. The union's in the middle of all these negotiations about benefits and-"

"God, you are such a drag...," Hannah teased. "When did you turn into your parents? I bet you hit puberty at, like, five."

Mac smiled. "She's right, man. You've worked their long enough. They'd give you the time off if you wanted. And if they don't, screw 'em... I know just the thought of digging out old pots and pans in Mexico is better than sex for you. Live a little."

Tyrese returned the smile, blushing slightly. He turned his gaze to his beer. "Is not...," he muttered.

"Yes, it is! Oh my god, yes it is!," Mac shouted a little louder than intended, gesticulating wildly with eyes wide open. They had been at the bar for a while and the alcohol would always get to Mac first. "Remember when we were in the eighth grade and Amy Kemfer asked you out, so you invited her over to your house and the three of us went around scouring the pond to add to your frog collection?"

Tyrese winced, but grinned broadly. "Yeah, actually I do remember. You both ditched me after half and hour to sneak back to my garage and make out."

"Okay, yeah, but she really wanted you."

"Thanks. Thanks, that helps a lot," the three laughed togethor, soaking in the atmosphere of their surroundings. Outside the moon was half obscured by clowds and shown onto them through a small window on the far wall. Hannah's eyes glanced at it as they spoke.

"Speaking of sneaking around," Tyrese started, bringing his tone down a little, "are you guys still struggling to avoid Mr. Kenny?"

"Don't say it like that," Mac said.

"I know... I know. Just teasing. But still..."

Hannah pushed a strand of auburn hair out of her eyes. The features of a face betrayed a certain seriousness. "I don't know. It's hard, just seeing him randomly at the grocery store and stuff. Still creepy. I mean, we've been over for months now but he looks at me strangely and he only recently stopped calling. Something seems weird about him..."

"Stalker-weird?," Tyrese implied.

"I keep telling you, Hannah, if the guys makes you uncomfortable at all, you should do something about it. Or let me talk to someone..."

"I know. I just-"

"Speak of the devil," Tyrese shot in a hushed whisper. Both his friend's eyes shot over to him, then followed his gaze over to the door. In it stood a young man, Wayne Kenny, their subject of conversation, with light brown skin and wild black hair. He walked forward a bit, and it seemed to Tyrese that he stumbled slightly and had a drunken manner about him. His eyes were dark and intense as he scanned the room looking for something. When those fiery eyes set upon the three at the bar, Hannah in particular, the expression changed to something Tyrese had never seen before. An emotion he had no word for. Stiffly, the man began to walk in their direction.

"Look, maybe if I talk to him-," Tyrese started as he hoisted himself from the barstool.

But before he could fully turn around, a pair of hands was on his neck.

"Whu?!-," he stuttered as he was thrown, head first down into a table.

Everyone reacted at once. Mac stood up to protect his friend. Hannah screamed. The bartender started to yell in an attempt to get Mr. Kenny to calm down.

Tyrese painfully turned on his back just in time to watch the lanky man pull a small handgun out of his jacket pocket and aim it right at Mac's heart. "No one gets between me and the woman I love," he rasped. Then he pulled the trigger. Hannah screamed even louder as a hole erupted in Mac O'Brien's back, blood splattering against the countertop behind him. His body fell heavily backward, following the momentum of the shot, and he slowly sank to the floor.

Tyrese desperately tried to clear his head, but his eyes couldn't register distinct shapes. All he could sense was the screaming confusion and a bright array of colors.

Across from him, the attacker grimaced as he aimed his gun over at Hannah's temple. She started to cry in fear, eyes darting around frantically for escape. The man clenched his jaw, looking as though he was about to fire, when a metal stood collided with his head. He stumbled once, like he was considering falling to the floor, but then the chair came back and blew furiously against his forehead. The gun dropped as he fell, and the bartender crossed the bar to pick it up and make sure he was out cold.

Hannah wept as she cradled Mac in her arms and would continue to weep for the fifteen minutes it took for the police and ambulances to drive away. Tyrese had reclaimed his perceptions enough to see the prone body of Wayne Kenny breathing as a set of cops dragged him away. And at that moment, he knew hate.

The cops would leave soon. Hannah and Tyrese would be questioned over and over again. They would cover the dead Mac O'Brien's body and escort a bleary-eyed Hannah home. But Tyrese remained. He sat on the floor, in a daze, looking at the cold body of his best friend. He touched his finger to his bloody, but healing, lip as though neither body part were connected to him. His eyes shifted without focus until he saw something on the television, which was still on, up above him.

A reporter's voice droned monotonously as a black and white image filled the screen.

"-ene was captured by a camera inside the gas station." A man walked through the hazy sliding doors of the station, his features completely hidden by his baggy sweatshirt and ski mask. Screams, muffled by the recording, could be heard as he pulled a gun from the pocket of his shirt. The man behind the counter covered his head and ducked.

Tyrese's eyes were glued to the TV as the man from the tape began to reach over the counter for the cash register.

"The gunman has been identified as one Alan Wyatt. Sources have identified him as having a lengthy history of misdemeanors and jail time, despite his relatively young age of twenty-five," the reporter continued. The gunman proceeded to break open the cash register and begin his looting when, in the blink of an eyes a tall form clad only in a long cloak and hood. He grabbed the man's wrist and twisted it, forcing the gunman to fire off three blind shots. Sparks and debris fell from the ceiling. He fought for control of his weapon, but the figure maintained a strong grip on it. Finally the gun was whipped to the side by the cloaked man, who grabbed Alan Wyatt by his neck and threw him straight up, with uncanny strength, into the ceiling where he collided, then fell back to the floor below. His body disappeared as the counter top blocked the view of the floor, but the camera rolled on as the Spectre grabbed the gun and moved down towards Alan, soon disappearing himself behind the counter. All that could be heard was one loud gunshot, and the flash of a muzzle. After many minutes, the operator rose from his crouching position, but neither the gunman or his assailant arose. The cloaked figure had disappeared. Then the image faded and returned to the face of an average brown-haired reporter behind his desk.

"The identity of the figure you have just seen is strongly suspected to that of costumed super-figure, "The Spectre." Though police are trying to suppress this information for the fear of starting rumors, witness statements strongly support the involvement of the sometime member of the Justice Society of America. For those viewers who are less familiar with the character, The Spectre is listed as a member of the JSA, a cadre of war-time superheroes, whose origins and powers remain a mystery to the general public. As shown by his example of strength here, he is believed to have superhuman powers, but beyond that little is known. Police are looking for more information as to his involvement in the shooting but are refusing comment at this time. Due to the nature of the Spectre and his powers, it is unlikely he will involved in the legal affairs of the case."

"What is apparent though, is his use of lethal force. Many questions are presented by this. Who is the hooded figure? A renowned super-hero, or simply a vigilante operating on his own system of justice? And either way, how should metahumans be regarded in their oppposition of crime? Is lethal force acceptable for non-deputized citizens? Who is the Spectre? These questions and more will be addressed in our special edition spotlight "Costumes in the Court-Room" at night. Thank you, and this is-"

Tyrese's attention faded as he retreated into his own thoughts. The black and white pictures of the Spectre resonated within his battered mind. When a policeman recommended he find his way home, and asked if he was feeling all right to make it himself, Tyrese nodded and smiled. The idea that tickled the back of his mind guided him back to his house that night...

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Tyrese wasn't at his house now...

It was a starless, moonless Halloween night and a tall man with a thin beard stood on top of the five story community hospital as the cold wind lapped at his body. The long cape around his shoulders pushed against his body as he looked at the silent ground below. His body was covered from shoulder to toe in a white bodysuit that clung to his physique. A dark, green belt hung on his hips, the kind with many pocket and satchels for small tools. And, blending in the most with the dark night, was the dark green cloak that hung over his broad shoulders and extended down to his calves.

He ignored the chill as he walked across the stone roof. Padded soles protected his feet. A bulletproof vest was tucked under his white costume. He opened a metal briefcase, exposing the scattered components of a long, silver rifle. He ran the smooth steel through his fingers and a sexual chill ran down his spine. His mind traveled as he assembled the gun.

Below him, on the third floor of the hospital, in room 11B, Wayne Kinney lay on his bed, completely comatose. He had gone to prison for his crimes four years ago, but had suffered an injury in a fight with an inmate. The fight had grown beyond the original two and by the time it was broken up, the frail man had endured numerous blows to the head. He had been temporarily transferred to the local hospital to wait while a larger hospital prepared for his coming. Tyrese saw it as fate. How else could the killer of his best friend, on the anniversary of that death, be delivered right into his home town? Right into his hands?

He pushed the smile inside him down, dedicating himself to the gravity of the situation at hand. He loaded the bullets into the gun and set it down on a ledge next to him. He reached into a pouch on his hip and pulled a faceless, full, pale mask over his head. It stretched to fit over the form of his face, blocking out the eyes and mouth, but the special fabric allowed him to breath and see, though obscured. He pulled the jade hood over the crown of his head.

"I am the Spectre," he intoned.

Requiring no more drama than that, he walked over to the roof doorway, opened it and walked in. He had many friends in the hospital, and it had been a simple matter to steal a key while in conversation with one of his favorite orderlies, Cat, earlier that week. It had been another matter entirely sneaking up to the roof in the afternoon, before the night shift started. He had had to wait on top of the building for hours, watching the sun go down, and sensing the heat leave through his body as night set upon him.

He pressed the gun to his body and walked down the stairs to the top floor. His padded feet slapped the ground softly. The hospital halls were eerily silent and dimly lit. A place that was usually so warm and sterile, cast in such a negative light, unnerved Tyrese. The plastic plants sat on cheap wooden tables on top of cheap carpeting. The smell of economy-brand cleaning detergent was present on everything. The old and injured slept peacefully in their beds with lamps or muted televisions turned on above them. Manson checked every room carefully as he passed, making sure no one saw him.

Suddenly he heard footsteps. A sharp clacking on the floor that could only come from high heels. His cape swished as he ducked into one of the rooms, hiding the gun behind him. He watched rise and fall of an old man's chest as he slept. Tyrese's eyes stared straight at the old man's, ready to move at any indication that the man would wake up. None came. A thirty-something orderlie walked past the room, focused on her clipboard.

He jogged down the hallway more briskly than before. Upon reaching the cold

floor in front of the elevators, he looked both ways over his shoulders,

then pushed the down button. Anticipation seized his throat and wouldn't let

go. His heart raced and his breathing grew more shallow as he watched the

triangle over the elevator light up. Orange.

He stepped on the elevator and pushed the "Close" button. It hummed it's doors slid shut and it slowly eased down the shaft towards the third floor. He cradled the rifle in his hands and was almost giddy with anticipation. He wiped at the mouth of his costume with little result. His labored breathing had pasted the mouth part with spit and perspiration, like a child's Halloween mask right before they ask to take it off as they go trick-or-treating with their parents. He ignored it. The elevator stopped at the third floor.

He waited, gun drawn, but the door did not slide open.

Confused, he pushed the open button. There was a grinding, jerking noise, very quiet, but still nothing.

Tyrese suddenly became very aware of how small of a space he was enclosed in...

Suddenly, the doors to the elevator crunched togethor then ripped apart in shreds. From out of the blanket of shadow, the otherworldly force of vengeance known only as The Spectre flew for him like a bat flying up out of Hell. He lunged and punched for Tyrese's face. Tyrese shrieked and ducked, using the excitement of fear to push him around his assailant's body, then out the door.

He plunged into the hallway, sweat soaking down into his eyes, blinding him. The green cape strung along behind him as he turned to face the ghost in the elevator. The Spectre turned and faced him, eyes blacked out by the shadow of his hood, a grim countenance on his pale, white face. He seemed to slide along the ground, not walk, as he moved slowly towards Tyrese Manson.

The faux-Spectre, for his part, exhaled a loud, pent-up breath, and emptied two rounds into the Spectre. They never seemed to make contact, or even a sound, as they would have if they had passed through his gut. The Spectre only increased his speed.

Dots of light, alerted by the gunfire, flickered on in the small rooms, and Tyrese could hear the murmur of voice.

Escape, he thought. I need to escape!

The young man flew down the hallway like a demon possessed. His feet sometimes tripped and stumbled, unused to the padding as he was, but he pressed on. The cape whipped and cracked behind him, and the doors lining the hallway flew by him in a blur as he raced down the vacant corridor. A male nurse emerged from one of the rooms, looking like he was going to try and stop the costumed figure. Tyrese lost himself then, and in a fit of fear, lashed out with the butt of his rifle, cracking the man in the teeth, and continued to run.

He dodged down another hallway, this one completely dark. It's occupants, few as they were, had slept through the commotion. He streaked down the path in a frenzy, only to be blindsided as a white fist, solid like marble reached out of the blackness of a dark room to smash him in the jaw. He sagged to the floor but turned to lay on his back. He stared up in abject terror, the Spectre towering above him with his cloak wrapped around himself. The man raised his gun again and shot into the Spectre's face, but the cloaked head merely shifted to the side at an angle almost wrong enough to be considered inhuman. But then he readjusted himself as would a normal person and stepped forward as debris from the cieling fell behind him.

He tossed out the sides of his cloak and, like a great emerald/white raven, or like creature of the night, descended onto the paralyzed form of Tyrese Manson. Tyrese kicked out with his legs but only met with the Spectre's chest, which at that moment seemed as dense as solid rock. The Spectre reached out his hands for the gun but Tyrese held on for deal life. They shifted from side to side, the muscles of one white-clad figure wrestled against the natural white form of the other. Their almost matching green cloaks coalesced inton one form as they struggled on the ground.

The Spectre reared up on his victim's chest, raising up a lean, strong white arm. He let it fall like a hammer again punching the man in the face. He held the man's throat then as he raised up the left fist to do the same. Tyrese's eyes bugged out of his head, but he focused through the pain and grabbed the rifle he'd dropped. He swung it with a fury he'd never known, an intensity that even to this day had been alien to him, and hit the Spectre in the side, then the back of the head. It looked as though it barely effected him, but this was enough time for Tyrese to shift his weight and roll the Spectre on his back.

The Spectre's icy hands reached up as Tyrese pulled away from him, with only the time to make one gesture. He ripped the soaked white mask of the man's face.

"You are not The Spectre," a matter of fact voice, as cold as the death of a child, rippled through the pit of his soul.

Then, both heads turned to see a nurse walk hurriedly down their hallway.

"What's going-," she started, before her eyes flew open with realization.

Tyrese swung the gun her direction, and aimed to shoot, but the Spectre reached out his hand and with fingers as mighty as any vice, pinched the barrel of the rifle shut.

Tyrese's entire world went red as the gun exploded in his hands. Shrapnel flew out and embedded itself in his gut and his arm. His left hand itself was ripped to shreds and bleeding profusely. He screamed with all the might he'd ever known and took off running down the hallway.

He bit his lip to fight the pain as the blood from his hand ran down his white costume and stained it. His cape tripped him as he ran but he fought with it, running down this hallway and that, dodging and weaving as much as possible. He lost himself in the dark maze of the hospital.

The pain still blared up his arm as he came to a small recreation room. It was a nice little room with some white couches, a flower, a few tables, and long, dark green carpet. His heart beat in his chest, shaking him up to his brain. Bloodshot eyes darted from one corridor to the next. Three hallways. Three ways for the Spectre to come. They were all drenched in darkness. And all was silent.

He waited there, for minute after minute. Eyes never wandering from the hallways his enemy could attack him from. Until he felt something brush against his foot...

He looked down, and once again gasped in fear. The green carpet pitched and shifted like the sea and as he followed it's twitching movement he saw the green carpet lead right up into the green cloak of the Spectre, who stood stoic and silent in the corner. The floor beneath him grabbed at his feet and wrapped around his ankles. He screamed, and tried to struggle, but only fell over. The shadows pulled him down into them, like calling a brother home. He twisted and pulled with all of his might, but the pull was too strong.

"No!," he bellowed. "NO! Please! No....AIIIIIIIGH!"

When a doctor, followed by a group of policement raced to the scene minutes later, all they saw was an empty, white costume with a torn, green cloak. Witness identification from the nurse and the mysterious disappearance of Tyrese Manson from school led the police to close the case with his name on it, but no body was ever found.

Halloween came and went that night, but the costume sat on the floor. When the children are done dressing up, all they want to do is go home, and be safe...