95A-Schofield - The Halloween Haunt
The Halloween Haunt — A 5-Minute Creepy Story
The chill of late October had settled over Fort Riley, and Quarters 95A stood quietly under the bruised sky, its windows reflecting the last flickers of Halloween lights. Inside, the Martins’ daughter, fourteen-year-old Laura, hurried home from school, eager to get ready for the night’s festivities. The air inside was cold and still—unnaturally so—and the house carried that old, hollow scent of limestone and age.
She dropped her backpack by the stairs and headed to the bathroom. The light buzzed faintly as she closed the door behind her and started the shower. Steam fogged the mirror, muffling the world outside. Then came a creak—soft at first, then louder—the unmistakable sound of the bathroom door opening.
Laura froze.
“Dad?” she called, voice echoing faintly against the tiled walls. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
A low grunt answered her. Slow, heavy footsteps padded away, descending the stairs.
Relief washed over her for a heartbeat—until she remembered her father’s car wasn’t outside. She turned off the water, the silence pressing thick around her. Peeking into the hall, she found the door wide open, and the air beyond was bitter cold. The wooden floors groaned faintly, as if someone had just stepped off them.
“Dad?” she called again, louder this time. No answer. The house held its breath.
She grabbed her towel and phone, dialed quickly with trembling fingers. When her father answered, confusion colored his voice. “Laura, I’ve been at work all afternoon. I haven’t been home.”
The color drained from her face. The line crackled softly, and for just a moment—before she hung up—she thought she heard another faint grunt, low and wet, on the call.
That night, she could not sleep. Every shadow seemed to twitch in the corners of her room. The wind outside pressed against the old panes, whispering nonsense through the cracks. And then—just before midnight—something darker than shadow rose by the window.
It didn’t move. It didn’t breathe. It only watched.
She buried herself under the covers, heart pounding so hard she could hear it echo in her ears. When she dared to look again, the figure was gone. Only the curtains swayed slightly, as if touched by invisible hands.
The days that followed were quieter—but the house was not the same. Footsteps drifted across the second floor when no one was home. Doors stood ajar when Laura knew she’d shut them. Sometimes, late at night, she heard the faint hiss of a shower running somewhere deep in the house—just a whisper of water, enough to chill her to the bone.
Halloween had come and gone, but something had stayed behind in Quarters 95A.
The neighbors said the old artillery houses kept echoes of the past, that the soldiers who’d once lived there still marched through them when the veil thinned. But what Laura saw wasn’t a soldier. It was too still. Too cold. Too deliberate.
Sometimes, when the moonlight spills through her window just right, she still sees the outline—by the same glass where she once saw it years ago. Standing there. Silent. Waiting.
And every October 31st, when the clocks creep toward midnight, the bathroom door creaks open on its own… and the sound of heavy steps drifts once more down the stairs of 95A Schofield Circle.