This year Halloween felt especially eerie. Rumors were crawling through the city: three children had vanished in the week before the holiday. Police were sending alerts to schools and parent chats:

“Do not let children go out alone. Do not open the door to strangers in masks. Report suspicious vehicles without plates.”

Emily gathered the girls that morning and spoke more sternly than ever: 

“Today — not one step outside without Maria. Understood? No trick-or-treating, no friends. If anyone knocks — don’t open. Call me or Dad. This is not a joke.”

Lily rolled her eyes. 

“Mom, we’re not little anymore!” 

“That’s exactly why I’m scared,” Emily snapped. “Promise me.”

Both promised.

***

Emily left the office at seven — last filling of the day. Her phone had been silent all afternoon, and that was making her nervous. Maria usually called at least once: “Lily’s throwing a fit about sneakers again,” “Kate ran into the yard,” “the girls are fighting like cats.” Today — nothing.

Lily, the elder, twelve years old, was a walking tornado: one day she’d scream that she needed the exact same lululemon leggings every girl in class had, the next she’d dial 911 because Kate had “stolen” her favorite doll — “that’s a crime!” Last time the cops actually came, chuckled, and left; Emily had to apologize, red-faced. Kate, eight, copied her big sister: she’d set a napkin on fire “for an experiment” or dart toward the pool under renovation. Once she almost fell in — Maria barely caught her.

The latest battles between the sisters had broken out over feeding the lizard. It all began right after they moved into the new house — the moment Dad brought home a blue-bellied beauty.

The girls instantly loved the house: they raced up and down the stairs, staged pillow wars, and shrieked so loudly that Maria kept reaching for the phone.

“Everything’s a mess again!” the housekeeper would complain, calling Emily at work.

Emily, pulling away from a patient for a second, would hiss through her teeth: 

“Maria, I asked you to call only in real emergencies!” 

“Well, they’re behaving like it’s an emergency — they don’t listen at all! And they run into the yard!”

Brian had strictly forbidden the yard: the pool was still being repaired, the water drained; one stumble and the girls could break their necks.

Lizards darted across the back lawn. One day Brian covered one with a bowl. Why a successful dentist, businessman, and father of two suddenly decided to keep a lizard as a pet — God only knows. Maybe he’d dreamed of it as a boy and only remembered now.

The scaly creature was temporarily placed in a jar. But when Brian saw the lizard clearly pining, he jumped in the car, sped to the pet store, and came back with a proper terrarium and a heat lamp. And, of course, food — live crickets.

In the evenings, after work, Brian and Emily would go to the garage, stand side by side, and watch the calm movements of their new pet. Simple joy.

But a busy man soon tired of driving to the store, so Brian started ordering crickets online. Five hundred at a time — enough for almost a month.

At first the girls fed the lizard with enthusiasm, but the process quickly grew boring, and they returned to their usual games. 

Then Dad categorically forbade them to approach the tank without adults — and interest flared anew. The moment Maria turned away, both girls sneaked into the garage, elbowing each other, and tossed crickets to the lizard.

That day they slipped into the garage again to feed the pet when a blood-curdling scream came from the hallway where Maria was mopping the floor.

***

Meanwhile Brian texted his wife: “On my way home. Where are you?” 

No answer.

Emily dialed the house phone — long beeps. Dialed Maria — voicemail. Her heart sank. Terrible images flashed: the girls in costumes lost in the Halloween crowd, fallen into the empty pool, someone had lured them away… 

She bolted from the clinic still in her witch costume under the white coat — the girls had begged her to come home “in character.” Brian overtook her at a traffic light, his face ashen.

Forty minutes of hell on the road.

When they screeched into the driveway, lights glowed only on the second floor. The front door stood ajar. Inside — silence. No music, no laughter, no shouting. Only a faint rustling, like someone pouring sand across the parquet.

Emily burst in first. She froze on the threshold.

The entire ground floor was black. Black and alive. It moved. Hundreds of tiny bodies hopped, crawled, rustled.

Crickets.

Emily screamed — not from terror, but from overwhelming relief. Brian rushed in behind her, tripped, and fell to his knees right into the swarming mass. Crickets leapt onto his face, into his hair, down his collar.

Footsteps thundered upstairs. Lily and Kate, dressed as a princess and a skeleton, peeked over the railing.

“Mom! Dad!” Lily shouted. “Maria ran away! She opened the box and crickets poured out! We locked ourselves in the room! Kate wanted to call the police, but I said: wait, maybe it’s a Halloween prank!”

Emily glanced at the wall calendar. October 31. Friday. The cricket shipment always arrived on Fridays.

She started laughing. Quietly at first, then louder, then uncontrollably, right in the middle of the black carpet of insects. Brian laughed too — hoarsely, until tears came.

At that moment they understood: the kids were alive. The house was safe. And a thousand jumping creatures were just a thousand jumping creatures.

As the last of the critters were corralled back into the box, the house slowly regained its usual order. Slumped exhaustedly in the living-room armchairs, the parents began to wonder: why had Maria, who never touched packages, brought the box inside and opened it this time? She couldn’t explain it later.

Most likely a mischievous Halloween spirit had slipped into her.