Prey for Her

Some monsters hunt monsters

Sep 22, 2025

A registered predator’s Halloween night takes a deadly turn when he lures a seemingly innocent trick-or-treater into his basement, only to discover she’s hunting him.

This story is intended for a mature audience. It contains depictions of child predatory behavior, violence, gore, and disturbing imagery. It may be disturbing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

Audio

Prey for Her

It was the Saturday before Halloween, the town's official trick-or-treat night, and Andrew was missing all the fun. He licked his lips, watching a chubby-cheeked witch go by, placed a cigarette in his mouth, imagined its nicotine kiss was from her, and lit it with shaking hands.

Other than the glow of the cherry, the porch was dark. That cop had made sure of that. Showing up earlier in the week, he'd made it clear: Light stays off and Andrew stays out of jail. Even a sneeze in the general direction of a trick-or-treater would violate his parole. To drive the point home, he'd stabbed that horrid sign into Andrew's yard: "BEWARE. PREDATOR. NO TRICK OR TREATING AT THIS ADDRESS."

Despite the warning, a bowl sat on his lap, heavy with chocolates. It wasn't there as a lure, he argued with the cop in his head, but a salve for a wounded heart. If someone did come to his house for candy, he didn't want them to leave disappointed. He was just being a good and courteous neighbor. Then why was he dressed as a priest? Well, it's Halloween, and he was celebrating by himself, officer. Is that illegal, now? In his head, the officer turned into a bumbling mess, fleeing with tail between his legs at Andrew's sound logic.

The cigarette joined its brothers in the mass grave he'd made for them. Ground down into the crude ashtray he'd forged in a prison pottery class. A creative outlet meant to help him fight his urges—it hadn't helped.

Then, he waited.

Princesses and pirates passed by, most not looking his way; those that did were quickly swept past by protective parents. He almost had a visit from a Batman, but apparently, he'd learned to read early. That damned sign caught his attention when he was halfway up the path and sent him running back into the night. Damned Hooked on Phonics.

The evening faded to black as night grabbed the sun by the throat and forced it over the horizon. Traffic died. The pitter-patter of little feet faded. The only sound now the heavy rustle of feathers as vultures landed in the Sugar Maples around his home. Their oily black feathers stark against the vibrant orange and red foliage.

"There's nothing dead here. Shoo!" Andrew waved his arms at them, but they didn't budge. Just replied with their gravelly graveyard cries that sent a chill down his spine. Or was that from the drop in temperature? It did seem unseasonably cold for autumn. He hugged himself and noticed the fog that crept across his lawn. It was definitely time to get into the house.

Just inside the door, he dropped the candy dish on the side table and thought how close he'd come tonight to fulfilling his urges. Violating innocence. Violating his parole. Maybe he should call his therapist and confess how close he'd come. Maybe he could beg for forgiveness. Find absolution in psychology. Maybe—

"Trick or treat," a young voice said from behind.

Andrew whipped around and—dear lord.

An angel.

No, what had Humbert Humbert called them?

A nymphette. That's what she was.

Unblemished skin with arresting doe eyes gazing into his own. Hair peeking out of the edges of a habit. Yes, a habit. The girl was dressed as a nun. The irony was not lost on Andrew, with him in his priest costume. She was like a gift from God. Just as Eve was made for Adam. This girl was made for him.

"Hello," he said, eyes flicking to the dark outside his door, scanning for parents or older siblings—for danger. He didn't see anyone. But he needed to be sure. He licked his lips. "Where are your parents?"

"Dead."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," he said, though his heart fluttered at the words. Two less to worry about searching if she went missing.

"Your guardian, then?" he asked, leaning over her and out the door, glancing left and right. This was all too perfect. It could be a sting operation. He could see some self-proclaimed vigilante like Sam Harris, the so-called Predator Hunter, setting something like this up.

Yes. Something about this smelled wrong. And it wasn't the only thing. Hovering over the girl as he now was, he caught her scent: She smelled—cold? Yes, like the world smells after a thick coating of snow.

How strange.

"You ask a lot of questions," she said.

He took his eyes off the dark and looked down into hers. Now noticing they were the strangest he'd ever seen—a cloudy blue-gray that spoke of deathbeds and open graves. They were the river Lethe, and he was a lost soul in their waters. The words that had been dancing on his tongue slipped away, and so did all his worries. All that mattered was that she was here, alone, with him.

"Would you like some candy?" He proffered the bowl he'd spent the evening grinding against.

Her mouth twisted in distaste.

"Sorry. You don't like candy? No, you wouldn't be trick-or-treating if you didn't like candy. I know—it's because they're fun-sized." He licked his lips again. His breath wanted to run wild, buck against his ribs, but he reined it in. Plastered on a friendly smile. The conspiratorial kind that said he was one of the cool, fun adults. "I-I do have some king-sized ones in the house. But you'll have to come inside for those. Just while I get them from my hiding spot. I hid them from myself, you see. Watching my calorie intake." Andrew realized he was rambling and stopped.

"Okay," she said. Her eyes never left his face. He was sure she hadn't blinked the entire time. Maybe there was something wrong with her. That would explain why she was out so late. And by herself.

He stepped aside, but she didn't move. She remained still as stone, perched at the threshold. Watching him.

"What are you waiting for? An invitation? Come on in."

For the first time, she smiled. Wide and toothy. But her teeth—they looked wrong. And he knew teeth. Before his troubles with the law, he'd been a dental hygienist. Teeth could do odd things, grow in strange directions, but he'd never seen some like this. Her canines and incisors were long, sharp fangs.

"So, a nun? Are you religious?" he asked as she stepped past him and into the house.

"I'm dressed as Sister Athanasia. A nun from 15th-century Byzantium," she said, as her eyes roamed the room.

"Oh, that's nice." He nodded, closed the door, and slid the deadbolt home with a quiet click. Plotting how to get her into the basement. He wished that he'd had time to plan something, but when your prayers are answered, you thank the Lord and don't complain that it wasn't done on your terms. "I was raised Baptist myself. I'm not familiar with the saints."

The girl turned towards him. "Sister Athanasia was far from a saint."

"Oh, that's nice," he said, rubbing his palms down the front of his pants. Chastising himself. Don't get the girl riled up. Be nice and friendly, and get her to the basement. No one can hear her scream there. "What's your name?"

"Thea," she said. Her voice was a soft, honeyed whisper.

"I'm Andrew," he said, eyes flicking to the basement door to her right. He could just grab her. He could have the door shut before the screams started. If anyone heard, he could say it was a horror movie, or something.

As if reading his mind, she pointed to the basement door and asked, "What's down there?"

God bless children's natural curiosity. It was almost like she wanted this as much as he did.

"The candy bars," he said, proud of his quick thinking. "They're downstairs. In the basement. There are some other goodies, too. Toys, teddy bears, whatever your heart desires."

He walked past her. The air between them made the hair on his arms stand up. He fumbled with the doorknob, slick hands losing their grip.

"After you," he gestured down the darkened stairs.

She watched him for a moment. A heartbeat where he was sure she would back away. Say she wants to go, cry for her mother. Instead, she smiled that toothy smile that was growing on him. Less odd and more exotic. He would swear there was a twinkle in her eye as she walked past and down the stairs. As if she knew what he was planning and was thrilled.

He got another good whiff of her. The smell of cold nothing. He would have to wash that off her. Replace it with a lavender scent. That would fit her much better.

The basement hadn't been updated. He'd left it the same as it had been when he'd inherited the house from his mother. The walls were covered with dark brown paneling, the ceiling – stucco tiles. The furniture, a broken-down floral couch that had never been cleaned, and a scratched-up coffee table, lotion and tissues within arm's reach, sat in front of an archaic tube television with a VCR. A tape sticking out from it. Something from his private collection that had escaped the ransacking authorities. The beauty of analog and a secret hiding spot from your childhood.

"Have a seat on the couch. Make yourself comfortable," he said, walking to the minifridge. He didn't have king-sized candy down here, but he had something that every child loved. "How about some ice cream?"

She didn't sit. Just watched him and smiled. Like she knew a secret the rest of the world wasn't in on.

He pulled out a drumstick and unwrapped it. His blood was rushing through his veins, a river roar in his ears. A river of want and unnatural desire. His muscles tensed, and his mouth started salivating. And he could agree with all those who condemned him. He was a predator, and he was going to devour her.

"You can have this, but you have to give me something first."

She said nothing. Just smiled and watched him.

"Give me a kiss. Just a little one."

She said nothing. That's not a no. Not that it mattered. It was too late for her. She was never leaving this basement.

He kneeled awkwardly so he would be closer to her height. Clasped her tiny arms in his hands. She was so cold. He could feel it radiating through her clothes.

He closed his eyes and leaned in.

Fire. Electricity. A supernova. The world was right and full of magic, and it ran through his veins. The voices, all the voices, the judges, lawyers, therapists, counselors, his parents—they all disappeared. How could he be sick? How could this be wrong? It felt so right. It felt so perfect. It felt so—

"Ow! Gaw dawmit!" Andrew stumbled back from her. His hand went to his lips, felt a stinging to his touch, and came away a deep crimson. He looked up to the girl. Smiling at him. Her teeth stained red.

Blood dripped down the edges of her mouth.

Blood pooled on her chin.

Blood drops dropped to the floor.

His blood.

The little bitch had bitten him.

He crawled to the TV and examined his reflection. His bottom lip was serrated. Deep cuts ran across it, turning muscle and fat into useless flaps of skin. This was going to heal ugly.

Rage built in him with every drop of blood that fell from him and stained the carpet. She was going to hurt. She was going to pay. He found the girl's reflection, and it was wrong.

"Wha are yu?" he whispered.

The girl, Thea, was no girl in the mirrored reflection of the screen. Her cherub face was gaunt. Skin tight against the skull. Her haunting eyes hollow caverns. Her costume draped over rattling bones. And behind her, something worse.

Clawed hands held the corpse up, moving it like a doll. Hands attached to a creature made of darkness, loathing, and regret. It caught Andrew's eye in the reflection, its own eyes a half dozen burning furnaces of molten hate, and hissed. Mouths where mouths shouldn't be opened, filled with needle black teeth.

He whirled around, and the creature was gone. She was just a girl again. But he knew, if he looked at that reflection again. It would still be there.

"Don't come any closer! Leave me alone," Andrew screamed through his mangled mouth as he scrambled to his feet and towards the stairs.

The lights in the room flickered. On and off with each thundering step he climbed. He'd just reached the top. Hand around the doorknob when—he felt a tiny cold hand wrap around his ankle.

He looked over his shoulder and met that angel face, smiling through rivers of his blood. Then he was gone, pulled down by a force greater than he'd ever known. Head bouncing violently off the steps. He tried to get a grip, on stairs, on walls, but she was too strong. He could hold onto nothing. For all his effort, his only reward were nails ripped and bleeding from the quick.

The world stilled. He felt like he floated somewhere outside his body. Felt the coarse carpet that had scratched the skin of his back. The pain in his lips, and fingers, and skull, throbbing but distant.

Then a weight straddled him. At once, light as a feather and heavy as a Sisyphean boulder. With great effort, he peered through his heavy eyes and saw the girl.

"M-monster."

"You're one to talk." She smiled, showing her fangs before snapping forward and driving them into his neck.

He thrashed at first. Tried to push her away. Tried to fight the end he knew was coming. But it was for naught. If anything, it seemed to excite her. Each push against her frame caused her to bite down and rend more meat and tendon from his neck.

Officer Downs walked up to the darkened house. Past the decorations, past the predator warning sign, past the vultures lining the trees, past the ugly ashtray, and knocked loudly on the door.

"Police. Open up," he said, in his deep baritone.

A deadbolt clicked, and the doorknob shook. He placed his palm on the grip of his pistol as the door slowly opened.

A little girl stood there, face covered in gore. Dark red smeared from chin to the crown of her head. Pieces of flesh and muscle clung to her cheeks, reminding him of a baby after eating spaghetti.

"Damn, Thea. You've gone and made a real mess of yourself," Downs said and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the girl's face.

"This isn't going to cut it. We'll need to stop and get some wet wipes. Come on," he said and held his hand out for her to take. She took it, and he gave it a little squeeze. He noted the viscera under her nails and made a note to get that too.

He walked her to his patrol car. At the sight of her, the vultures began to sing. Their rattling growls filled the air, a discordant melody that always made her rock her head like she was listening to actual music.

"I'm still hungry," she said, buckling into the passenger seat. Not that he was worried for her safety. He was sure nothing created by man could kill her, but it made him feel better, so she'd relented.

"Looks like you're wearing more than you ate," he said, buckling himself in.

Her lips scrunched together into a pout. "It's not my fault. I just get so excited."

Downs sighed and started the car. "I spent all week picking out predators. Marking them with those signs. We've got a dozen more houses to stop at. I just hope your eyes aren't bigger than your stomach."

The girl smiled. Eyes glinting in the moonlight. "You really are the best servant I've ever had."

Downs frowned. "I really don't like being called that. Servant. Makes me sound like a houseboy. A slave."

"What would you prefer then?"

He thought for a moment. "How about, friend?"

The girl smiled and turned to look out the window as they pulled into the street.

"Friend. I like it."

Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear what scared you most or your favorite line—drop a comment or even just an emoji 👻

25 Comments

Ready for more?