Halloween in Blacksburg, Virginia, is usually something my kids look forward to all year. The crisp autumn air, the glow of jack-o’-lanterns on porches, the laughter of children echoing through the neighborhoods it’s always felt safe, familiar, and fun. But on Halloween night in 2023, that all changed. What started as an ordinary evening of trick-or-treating near Brush Mountain Road turned into something I still can’t explain and honestly, wish I could forget. It was getting late, around 8 p.m., when I decided to take my two kids a little farther north, near the edge of town.
The houses thinned out the deeper we went, and the streetlights grew fewer until they disappeared entirely. Only the moon lit the way as we followed the cracked pavement, our flashlights flickering in the cool mountain air. The last few houses we came to looked much older weathered porches, chipped paint, the kind of places that seem frozen in time. I was about to suggest turning back when my youngest spotted a faint light glowing from a window of a house sitting just ahead, half-hidden behind a stand of dark trees. “Looks like they’ve got candy!” they said, already bounding up the steps before I could stop them. The porch creaked beneath our feet as I followed. The air felt heavier there—still and strange, like the woods themselves were holding their breath.
My child knocked on the door, and to my surprise, it slowly swung open with a long, hollow groan that echoed from inside. “Trick or treat!” my kids called out. Their voices sounded odd—like the walls swallowed the sound instead of bouncing it back. That’s when I saw it. Deep inside the dimly lit room stood a child, perfectly still. Its skin was pale—almost gray—and when my eyes adjusted, I realized what was wrong. The eyes. They were completely black. No pupils. No whites. Just endless, bottomless darkness staring straight at us. A chill ran up my spine as one small hand rose slowly and beckoned for us to come inside. I forced a nervous smile. “Sweetheart,” I said, my voice trembling, “are your parents home?” The child didn’t answer. I blinked, and in that split second—it was gone. The room was empty. The faint light that had been glowing from inside had vanished, leaving only dust swirling in the pale beam of my flashlight.
There was no furniture. No movement. No sign that anyone had lived there for years. Then, without warning, the door creaked open wider on its own. The sound was like a groan from deep inside the wood. And then… silence. The kind of silence that feels wrong—like even the crickets and the wind refuse to make a sound. That was enough for me. I grabbed my kids’ hands. “We’re leaving,” I whispered, pulling them down the steps as fast as I could. When I turned back one last time, the door had slammed shut. The house was completely dark, as if the light had never been there at all. It looked abandoned—rotted porch boards, broken shutters, weeds growing wild around the foundation. We didn’t stop running until we reached the main road. My kids were shaking, asking what that “weird kid” was, but I had no answer. All I could tell them was that we were going home. Trick-or-treating was over. Even now, two years later, I can’t drive past Brush Mountain Road without feeling a knot form in my stomach. I don’t know what we saw that night, or what would’ve happened if we’d stepped inside. But I know this—whatever that child was, it wasn’t human. And some doors in Appalachia are better left closed.
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