The air in Hawkins, Indiana, was crisp and smelled of woodsmoke and decaying leaves. Porch lights glowed amber against the early dusk, and the distant sound of a dog barking echoed down Elm Street.

Y/n had spent the better part of an hour perfecting their costume in the mirror. The seams were straight, the face paint just right. A final glance, a deep breath, and they pulled open the front door, stepping out onto the porch.

The porch light flickered.

Then the shadows moved.

Their costumes were a patchwork of thrift store finds and homemade flourishes. Gareth, in particular, had gone all out—a makeshift knight's tunic, a plastic sword at his hip, and a grin that said he'd been planning this jump scare for weeks.