⠀

She had been lying on the floor for close to a week now. She would get up at times. To feed herself. To go to the bathroom. Sometimes, she even showered. But eventually, inevitably, back she went into the living room and down on the floor.

The sadness, you see, was all-consuming.

⸸

The goblins came on the seventh night. They climbed in through the window. That she happened to live on the sixth floor of an apartment building, where the windows were fixed, mattered little—the goblins have always been a cunning kind.

The goblins formed a circle around her. The woman was awake but did not stir. She did not react in any perceivable way. Perhaps, by some enchantment, she could not sense the creatures. Perhaps she simply did not care.

This is what she would have seen: creatures the size of children, their skin pale and sallow. Their mouths were long, thin lines. Their noses appeared to be no more than mere slits. Their eyes were large and bulging and shone in the dark.

The goblins had no desire to hurt her. They had been summoned there, after all. An answer to unspoken prayers. Eventually, inevitably, they came.

One of the goblins carried a knife. It was black, as if made entirely of obsidian. It looked exceptionally sharp—moonlight gleamed off its edge. The goblin brought the blade down, right beneath her hairline. Then, with evident proficiency, it carved a thin, delicate line around her head. There was little blood—only a few beads here and there. Some ran down the woman’s temples, dripping on her hair and the collar of her shirt.

Incision made, the goblin stepped back. Another took its place. This one, with lithe, nimble hands, grabbed the woman’s scalp and, in one terrible, tearing motion, pulled it back.

Another goblin. In its hands was a different stygian blade, its edge sawtoothed rather than fine. It sawed into her skull. The scraping, grating, grinding sound echoed through the dead darkness of the apartment.

There was a distinct, sharp crack.

Once her head was open, it all came spilling out. The goblins went into a sudden frenzy. This one grabbed a lump of Heartache. This one, a piece of Hopelessness. This one, slices of Loathing and Despair. More and more psychic secretion spurted out of the woman’s skull: Loneliness. Regret. Melancholy. Bitterness. Envy. Apathy. Dread.

And the goblins, gluttonous and greedy, gorged into the night.

⸸

Daylight awoke her. She felt a slight pressure in her head, but she had long grown accustomed to insistent aches and pains upon waking.

There was also, she thought, a new and curious sensation. She couldn’t quite place it. Not relief, not exactly, but… a respite? Some sort of reprieve? The word benediction came back to her, suddenly, from her distant, devotional past.

She stared at the ceiling for a while.

Eventually, inevitably, she got up. The woman walked to the windows and, tossing the curtains fully aside, she was engulfed by the light.

Halloween 2025
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