Halloween was always his favourite time of year. He loved the dark nights, spooky films, and how everyone decorated their houses, but he also loved it for another reason.

            I picture his detached home; with those white washed walls I loved so much, gleaming like a freshly cleansed plate resting on the dryer. It stands on its own at this end of the street, the bare branches of the naked trees behind, appear to be chipping away at the moon with sharp teeth. I imagine the softness of the grass outside. I remember one night, during a storm - after a scorching hot dry spell that lasted for weeks, which baked our town, like we were in an oven - I ran out in frenzied excitement to feel the cool rain on my skin, I didn’t bother with shoes.

            There’s a pumpkin on his doorstep tonight, the candle flickers in a breeze that snakes up the street as though encouraged by evil spirits. How long has it been since I was last here? Five years, perhaps, I didn’t expect it to be this long. I was beginning to think I was the last; wishful thinking indeed.

            The curtains are drawn across the front living room window, but there’s a light on inside. He’ll be watching a horror film as per usual, like he does every Halloween night, like he used to do with me, curled up beside him on the sofa. I can still smell his after shave if I think hard enough. He’ll have his arm around her, Georgina, her name is. There’ll be a bowl of popcorn out on the table in front of them, which brings the salty taste to my tongue as I remember. It also reminds me of the days my mum would take me to the cinema when I was small and she’d treat me to the biggest box of popcorn ever, and a large plastic carton of Pepsi. It was the only time she allowed me to have a fizzy drink. More memories filter through my mind and I fight back the fury that begins to build, tonight is not the night for anger.

            I edge around the corner of the house, surprised he’s still not invested in tighter security in recent years. Perhaps he feels safe here. It is true; he rarely gets bothered by anyone other than the postman delivering the usual bills. Although the fact he had so few friends, never bothered me, it never set alarm bells ringing. Perhaps if I’d had brothers they would’ve warned me, or if my dad had still been alive, he would've said something.

            The kitchen at the back of the house is in darkness, though I can see the light of the hallway. It’s getting on for ten o'clock in the evening. The trick or treaters finished hours ago, most sensible parents having their children out by six o'clock and home by seven. If they’re sensible they’ll only visit the houses of the people they know. At this time of night, it’s only the odd older teenager still out and about. I hear their bikes screeching on the road as they break; I hear their laughter as they come across their next unfortunate victim, who’ll soon find themselves dripping in egg yolk, stinking to high heaven.

            He still doesn’t lock the back door, even tonight of all nights. It’s as though he enjoys the thrill of it, thinking someone might try to break in at any moment. I slip into the kitchen, and keep to the dark shadows.

            A scream emits from the television speakers. That won’t be the only scream tonight, or perhaps tonight will be different. I doubt it. They always scream.

            It’s eleven o’clock when they finish watching the film. They both emerge from the living room and into the hallway. They’re far too busy with each other to notice me. He kisses her greedily; she laps up the attention she's receiving. I almost smile, remembering the same excitement I felt, before the dread kicks in. I’d watched them first get to know each other, her falling for the same gorgeous smile that used to make me go weak at the knees. He always knew the right cards to play.

            They both thunder upstairs. Clothes are being torn off and thrown to the floor. I edge into the hallway and begin to pace. The pictures I bought at the antique store all those years ago are still hanging from the wall. I’d bought them as a birthday gift for him; I knew he’d like them. They were pictures of two World War Two fighter jets. I can’t believe part of me still feels slightly pleased that he’s kept them.

             I know what’s coming. It’s the reason why I’m here. This is the night he’ll kill her.

            Then the scream slices the silence which makes me stop in my tracks. I wait. I’m sure I hear his ragged breathing.

            ‘I don’t understand . . . I don’t.’ I slip into the living room. She’s kneeling on the cream carpet, shaking her head. She’s a petite thing, younger than I was, poor girl. Her head snaps up. ‘Who are you?’

            ‘It’s okay,’ I say, holding out my hand. ‘It’s okay.’

            Georgina stands, reaches out to take it, but hers passes straight through.

            ‘What?’ she says, taking a step back.

            I smile. ‘I thought I’d better be here tonight.’

            ‘You . . . you,’ she says.

            ‘It’s okay, the longer you’re separated from your body, these feelings of anger will subside, you’ll feel free, at peace.’

            Georgina’s too confused to take in anything I’m saying. I remember I was too, when it happened to me.

            ‘I’m . . . he killed me,’ she says.

            I nod. ‘I’m sorry.’

            He always went for girls like us. Girls who have no family living, no real friends. No one who’ll miss us. It’s why he’s gotten away with it for so long.

            ‘Did he . . .’

            If I could I’d give a melodramatic sigh. ‘I’m buried out in the woods at the back, there're four other girls there as well. You’ll meet them too, in time, when they’re ready. He’s already dug your grave,’ I explain. ‘I’m sorry you had to join our family.’

            ‘He planned this,’ Georgina screeches.

            ‘He always does,’ I say.

            ‘And the police have never . . .’

            ‘No.’

            I’m sure if she could right now she’d be sick. She’d cry. The rage would boil over inside her like a kettle about to explode.

            ‘Where do we go now?’ she asks.

            ‘Ah, I promise you we’ll take care of you; we look out for each other. We’re sisters now.’

            ‘I’ve . . . I’ve always wanted to be part of a family, I thought I’d . . .’ I can see she wants to cry, but now she can’t.

            ‘I know, I thought the same as well,’ I say, remembering how I thought I might have a family here one day, before that dream had been cruelly snatched away.

            As we edge out into the hallway, I hear the floorboards creaking upstairs. I know she’ll be curious. I know she’ll want to go upstairs and see what he’s doing with her body, how he’s reacting, but I need to protect her from that. Danielle, one of the other girls, she did that, and even after all these years she’s never forgotten it, and she can’t accept it.

            We glide out into the garden.

            ‘I’ll get him back for this, I’ll . . . I’ll make him pay . . . somehow,’ Georgina says.

            I nod. ‘Of course.’

            If I could I’d wrap my arms around her for a tight hug. We’re not able to interfere with mortal lives. We can’t make our presence known to the living. But perhaps Georgina will be the one to find a way. Perhaps the anger and hatred will continue to burn bright inside her, pushing her on to break through the barriers.

            I glance up at the upstairs bedroom window. The light’s gone off now. I will karma to strike and pray I don’t have to return next Halloween. Surely someone has to one day find us buried here. Then the police will get him.

            ‘Will he . . . will he do this again?’ Georgina whispers.

            ‘We can only hope not, our family can’t continue to grow.’

            With that we drift off into the night and into the forest, passing straight through the thick trunks as though they’re made of smoke, as we disappear to join our sisters.