They say the creature only comes on Halloween. That’s what kept the children brave. For decades, the legend of the Hallow’s Eve Beast lived in schoolyard dares and campfire stories—a towering thing of bone and fur, with glowing orange eyes and a jack-o’-lantern grin carved into its face. Supposedly, it devoured a trick-or-treater in 1957, and every October since, someone claimed to see it in the shadows, just beyond the porch lights.

But no one ever thought it was real.

Until now.

It’s mid-December in Elkhollow, and the snow is falling heavy and strange. The trees in the woods sway even when the air is still. A group of teens, out snowshoeing before the winter formal, come across a curious sight—giant claw marks in the snow. Not scratches, but trenches. They laugh, take a few photos, and move on. One of them never makes it back.

The local police blame wolves. But wolves don’t leave pumpkins at crime scenes—perfectly intact, hollowed out, with faces carved in a grimace. Wolves don’t hang antlers in trees like trophies. Wolves don’t drag footprints in a wide circle around sleeping houses.

No one understands why the Beast has returned in winter. Theories swirl: that Halloween came too warm and too quiet this year, and the creature overslept. That someone tried to summon it on the wrong night. Or maybe—just maybe—it’s never cared about dates. Maybe it’s always been waiting for snow, when blood is easier to spot.

One by one, those who mocked the legend vanish. In the woods, something snarls that sounds too hollow to be an animal. Something scrapes tree bark with too much rhythm to be random.

The Beast is real.

And this time, it isn’t leaving when the candy runs out.