They came at night, always at night. Always there. Always just out of sight. They flitted through town like leaves on a breeze. Little fingers tapped on windows, four little voices called, play, play. They’d be there and then gone, vanishing for maybe a month, maybe a year. But they always came back. Lily had heard them before. Back then she’d always been afraid. She’d shoved her fingers into her ears and waited for them to leave, like she was supposed to, like she’d been warned. But that day she’d been punished for something her little brother had done. When she’d tried to explain, her mother had refused to listen. The sharp edge to her mother’s words still stung, as did the unfairness. As she lay in bed, she heard the call – play, play. She knew she should cover her ears, stay in bed. Her parents would be mad if she broke their rules. They’d already punished her for doing nothing at all. Before she knew it, Lily was tiptoeing down the stairs. A moment of doubt slipped in as she fumbled with the lock, but defiant anger beat the hesitation away. When she opened the door, no one was there. “Hello?” she whispered to the empty dark. Can we come in? “Yes.” She knew she’d made a mistake once she saw them, once it was too late. They were shaped like children, sounded like children, but where their faces should have been were expressionless white masks with gaping black holes for the eyes and mouth. Lily took a step back as they moved towards her. Her heart flung itself against her ribcage. Hungry, whispered one. Hungry, the others agreed. Her hand shook as she pointed towards the kitchen. The biggest of them wore a different mask with the scarred and cruel expression of an angry witch. The witch gave a single nod. Lily watched as the others drifted away, not towards the kitchen but the bedrooms. She tried to cry out. The witch raised a finger to her painted lips and the sound stuck in Lily’s throat. From the depths of her cloak, the witch withdrew a mask. Join us. Lily took a step back. Hungry, said a voice from the top of the stairs. Lily turned to find that blood now dripped from the mask’s gaping black mouth. Wait, commanded the witch. The witch pushed the mask towards Lily. Join us, the witch repeated. Tears pricked Lily’s eyes as they swiveled between the bloodied mask and the witch. She wanted to scream, but sound still refused to leave her. Pressure built within her chest. Her heart beat so violently its thumping filled her ears. Join us, said the witch a final time. Hungry, said the others from the stairs, their empty black eye holes trained on her. Hungry. Five little voices called out play, play as little feet skipped through blackened streets like dead leaves on the wind.

The dry twig snapped under the sole of Mark’s boot, the cracking sound echoing through the trees. Freezing in his tracks, he darted his eyes around the shadowy glade like a startled harvest mouse. Moments earlier, he had followed the long snaking skid marks, scorched onto the country lane, and had stepped through the large hole in the hedgerow, where shredded branches were bent inward, directing him to the dark wood beyond. Hopefully, to where his older brother, now missing for three days, would be found. As the eerie silence returned, a chill rode up Mark’s spine and ice coursed through his veins. He continued onward. A few steps further on, he suddenly caught something in his peripheral vision and, once again, abruptly stopped. He turned to face what he could barely make out to be a weak red light emanating from the darkness on his left. It was an offside brake light on a black transit van, which had been wrapped around a large oak tree. Mark rushed over to the vehicle and immediately noticed the deep lacerations along its body work, the metal of the chassis exposed. He bent down and crested a hand over the war wounds. It must have been going like a bat out of hell, he thought. He jumped up and desperately tried to peer inside. But the glass all around was tinted opaque, including the windscreen. He tugged on the driver’s side handle, but it wouldn’t respond. Then something on the windscreen drew his attention. Markings of some kind. Symbols. Circles with petal-like ovals stemming from the centre to the edge. Each one the same as the last. Then it dawned on him. He knew exactly what they were. Apotropaic marks. Daisy wheels. Hexafoils. He had seen them before, carved into the timber frames in his grandfather’s barn. Then he remembered the old tales. How folk in the 16th century used the symbols to try and keep evil spirits and beldams away. He took a step back, distancing himself from warning signs. Then all of his senses suddenly burst into life. He suddenly became acutely aware of the presence standing right beside him. It was so close he could feel its warm breath on his neck. Its scent was the putrid flesh of a dead animal. Mark’s heart beat a tattoo as he slowly turned to face it. Inside the back of the transit, something stirred under the swathes of tarpaulin. Someone. Mark’s older brother. Barely alive. Ebbing away, he was conscious enough to hear the sounds outside. He had heard them before. Three nights ago, when his inebriated workmate had fled the safety of the vehicle, never to return. Right before he tried to conceal himself by blacking out the windows with a spray can and then etching the hexafoils into the dried coating. They were sounds of ripping. Shredding. Snapping. Sounds that confirmed something awful was happening outside. In the place they called ‘Witch’s Wood’.

"The night looms in their eyes. Their hearts. But it's a night without stars." My older brother stops, points to the old church. "That's where the Faceless Ones live. No one ever goes there. Especially not children." A shiver runs up my spine; on my arms, gooseflesh erupts. I pull up my Halloween mask. It smells of red paint. I look across the field, the church crouching near the woods, its windows black: gaping eyes, solemn, vacant. Brother pulls up his demon mask, careful not to muss the horns. He kneels down, placing his hand on my shoulder. "The Faceless Ones have no faces. So, on nights like tonight, when the Veil is thinnest betwixt our worlds, they steal little children like you to find another face, then they wear it, take over their lives." "What happens—" But Brother stops me with a hand to my mouth, pulls me behind a tree. A finger to his lips, he beckons with his eyes for me to look across the field. Four little figures in dresses and cloaked capelets, a fell green mist clinging to their feet as they stroll through the night-damp grass. Plain white masks adorn their faces, the eye sockets like looking down into a well at night. The mouths are slightly open in tiny O's. The tallest one wears a peculiar pointed hood; her mask bears a devilish upturned grin in blood red, the face painted like a ghoulish clown in white and black. "That tall one is their leader. The other ones are scouts. They're the ones who search for children in their beds," my brother whispers. "To take their faces, steal their lives." A tap on my window, plunging me into wakefulness. My dreams scatter into fragments. A tiny white face gazes at me through the now open window. The curtains inhale and exhale with the autumn breeze. I hear the clock ticking time, like the metronome in my piano lessons. Tick, tick, tick, tick... Before I can scream, I am in that field, the church staring back at me. Dread surges in my bowels. How did I get here? An ice-cold hand, dainty as a doll's slips into mine, pulls me forward. To the church. I don't know why but I know I don't want to go there. I struggle, but she is oddly strong. I still hear the clock. Or is it the metronome? Tick, tick, tick... Then, the tall one, looming over me, that grin burning into my brain as a shriek erupts from my throat. Tick, tick, tick... I am back in the field, vision obstructed. Two other white faces drift in the darkness next to me, the green mist flowing around us. I remove a white mask. Walking away from me, toward home, is a small figure in my dress. But her gait is odd. And she's wearing my face. I must go get it back.