In the middle of somewhere silent and empty, is a little old church attended by little old children. There’s a couple scraggly trees to stand guard, with faded memories of what the word ‘forest’ means. Though you may wander for miles through where the fog consumes everything, there’s nothing else to see. The children sit in the abandoned pews, listen to the echoes of past sermons. Embers of guilt and shame to keep them warm. Long ago, they forgot what they looked like, so they’ve donned costumes as children do. Three think they look close enough, to who they might have been, but the fourth isn’t sure. A point to her dark jacket hood and a sinister expression painted on her blank paper face. “It’s the eyebrows,” the one in the checkered dress-coat comments. The younger two nodding, in a growing number of repeating conversations, but never adding any to themselves. “It’s so much more than eyebrows.” The witch girl scoffs, hers in a permanent scowl. They forget their debate, as they’re wont to do, listening to the shushing of long gone worshipers. When murmurs sweep through, ebbing and flowing, the time to sit is over. When the bell cries its dusty memories, they’ll sit again but for now, they stand, sliding from the rotten wood. The narrow door always open before them. One pokes the malnourished grass with the toe of her rain boot, her mouth and eye-sockets as agape as they are with everything. Just like the others, except the little witch whose mouth remains haphazardly stitched into an assured smirk. Three shocked, one defiant. “Will there be a funeral today? Today?” The youngest sings. “Oh, it is a good day, for a funeral today, today. They’ve all gone away but I’d like to play, with somebody new today, today…” The girl with the eyebrows hums along. They all stand together, watching the nothing, waiting. For the day that special person will arrive. That promise they remember, someday, oh, someday, they’ll see. With the memory of a real smile, the little witch repeats to herself the promise she made in response. They’ll see and so will He.

Dear Beatrice, It has been far too long since we last spoke. I’m writing now to break that tragic silence and ask for a favor. Could you send me more of those hand-me-down clothes you have in storage? I’m afraid the children had a mishap with some of the costume pieces and now they refuse to wear any of it. I tried to explain they were Halloween masks, but the children wouldn’t listen. They were transfixed. Held in place by those pallid faces and the urge to wear them in public. I didn’t understand it, but with all that incessant chirping, I eventually gave in. Let me tell you, it was a huge mistake. As I expected, we received plenty of stares at the market that day. All the fresh smells and colourful produce couldn’t distract the little ones from the pointing, jeering masses around them. Children can be cruel, as you well know. Mine had never been laughed at before, and don’t know how to channel their feelings productively. Needless to say, the tantrum was more difficult to clean up than the clothes they tore up! What’s that stain remover you use? I tried hydrogen peroxide and baking soda, but it was no use. The cloth won’t even work as rags; I’ll have to use it as insulation. But all of that will have to wait. The brood was overzealous in town, and we’ll have to relocate. We live here because of the dimness of the local population, but even they won’t be able to ignore that many bodies. When I’ve set up a new nest, I’ll mail you a secure address for the clothing. As usual, I appreciate your help and advice. I should listen more closely. They just spent their first winter supping on treacle and preserves. They’d never been around prey before, and I should have chosen a more controlled environment. I should have expected them to play with their first meal. I know I did. Regardless, I’m still so proud of them. A full third made it to pupation and regardless of their poor senses for disguise, they already have the movements down. Within the year, we’ll have new colonies set up across the state. But enough about me and the kids. How have you been? I know it wasn’t the first time you’ve regrown a limb, but we aren’t molting like we used to. You have to take care of yourself, and if you’re going to keep acting like you’re still five, you should at least bring me to your next raid. Fresh captives can make good lessons for the little ones. Yours with love, Felicia

Niki walked across the field with her camera in hand. A subscriber to her blog, Places Forgotten, suggested the ghost town. She’d never heard of it, but thrilled by the reader’s response, she’d researched little beyond the best route to get there. Most of the buildings of the town were nothing more than piles of rubble. Except for a small traditional early-1800s church with its bell tower piercing the gray sky. It seemed untouched by the weather… by time. She looked around for signs of people inhabiting the church. No vehicle, lights, or smoke from the chimney. She clicked a few pictures. Then she saw them. Four children standing in the field. Their clothes, floral dresses, hooded coats, and black gloves were decades out of date. “Hello,” she called. They stood perfectly still. How had they appeared so suddenly? Zooming in her camera, her heart skipped a beat. They were wearing masks. White porcelain faces with hollow eyes and tiny round mouths. “I’m Niki.” What had she stumbled on? Unease prickled beneath her excitement. Was it some strange local ritual? The tallest child tilted her head slightly. Nothing more. The smallest child slowly lifted one arm and pointed toward the church. Then the children began walking. Not toward her. Toward the church. Their movements were stiff and deliberate, like puppets being guided by invisible strings. She knew she should leave. Instead, curiosity dragged her after them. The church doors stood open. The children entered. She followed. The air inside smelled of damp wood and dust. Dozens of people sat in the rows of pews. All wearing the same white faces. None of them moved. The four children sat in the front row among silent figures. As if their return was a signal, every face turned toward her. Hollow black eyes fixed on her. A violent ache exploded behind her eyes. Images flashed before her, too fast to grasp at first. Children huddled in the church. People weeping. A cloaked man dancing at the altar. The images felt real. Everyone stood and took a step towards her. She staggered backward. "We have been waiting for the missing one." A woman near her stood and slowly turned toward her. Cracks spread across her porcelain skin. Her mouth opened. The sound that emerged wasn't human. It was the creaking groan of ancient wood. Her porcelain face shattered. Beneath it was only darkness. No skin. No skull. No eyes. The others’ masks splintered as well. Fragments fell away like broken eggshells. Darkness spilled from within. She tried to scream and run, but couldn’t. The congregation started to shuffle toward her. Not quickly. Not frantically. Patiently. As though they knew escape was impossible. When dawn shattered the darkness, the field was empty. No footprints. No broken masks. No sign anyone had ever been there... Except for a camera buried in the decaying rubble, where a church had once stood.