It was him. It was really him. Jack Calloway. Or whatever the devil left of him. The pumpkin’s face was carved with that creepy grin, with thick teeth and mean eyes. Flames danced from those eyes, his mouth and off the sides—charring nothing. The thing was, my fear was ebbing away by the second. I looked past his wide grin and deep into the crackling flames. Something inside that I hadn’t known was there ignited. I swallowed thickly. “I don’t remember you.” “In death, I’ve forgotten much of you as well.” His tone dropped to a whisper so terrifyingly wondrous, like the rustle of a thousand
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