“What should we do?” asked the man with the scythe to the girl without. He stood on the precipice, while she sat at his feet, her tears draining down her rag doll cheeks, staining into the fabric.
“Flee,” she whimpered, straining her stitches, letting out stuffing and creating such itches. But this she endured, and endured for her love of the man with the scythe and the moon up above.
“They’ll come for us, to find us and kill us. Your stitches they’ll undo part by part, and I’ll be implicit in the most heinous of crimes, to show a little love instead of fear this time.”
“Maybe it’s love Halloween needs instead of the scaring and dying and screams.” She stood with resolve, or at least what she could muster, but the stuffing was weak in her ragged knees.
“It will not be shown by us, doll. To bring the peace, to dissolve the fear, I must cut a path with this scythe, pierce through as if a spear.” He took her hand, the sickly looking man wielding the reaper’s tool.
Into her eyes he peered and asked, “Are you ready?” With a nod they were off, jumping downward of the cliff of all they knew. Were they to save Halloween, or was it their mission to doom it?