The following is a flash prose piece written by yours truly, Evin Hughes.
The earliest recollection I have of fear is of the hideous beast that visited my brother and I on Halloween. There were a whole slew of things about its face that terrified us—the jagged row of teeth in its slobbering mouth, the tufts of brown hair on the cheeks, the shadow it casted from the corner of the room, the brooding, the howling. The rest of its body didn’t frighten us much, the human hands, legs, torso. We knew it’d eaten our older brother for the beast was wearing his favorite green-and-black stripped shirt. Sometimes it would unhinge at the neck and our brother would appear—perhaps it took a long time to digest human meat—and he would say, “Stop crying it’s just me.” O that damned beast!
We knew our older brother was magic, that he would return like he always did every day following Halloween. We knew our brother was invincible, but we still cowered when we saw the head of the beast—we were so irrational.