The neighborhood of Gloomwillow Lane was abuzz with activity, though not in the way most humans might imagine. There were no shrieking animatronic ghouls or dangling plastic bats; instead, the monsters were deep in their own annual ritual of decorating for Halloween—the one holiday where they pretended to be human.

Old Mr. Bones, a skeleton with a crooked rib and a knack for carpentry, knelt in his front yard hammering a perfectly ordinary, utterly terrifying wooden chair into place. It didn’t squeak. Not one bit. He tested it with his bony weight, leaning back. Silence. A shudder ran through him.

“Ha! That’ll scare the marrow out of the little ones,” he chuckled, dusting sawdust from his clavicle.

Next door, Countess Dravina shaded her eyes beneath a wide-brimmed hat as she arranged paper-mâché suns along her porch railing. Each one glowed a gaudy yellow, their construction-paper rays fluttering in the wind. She hissed every time one caught her reflection in the window.

“Disgusting,” she muttered. “Truly revolting. Just the effect I want.” She placed one more in the center, then waved at Bones across the hedge.

“Lovely chair, darling. Silent as the grave.”

“That’s the idea!” Bones waved back, pleased.

Farther down, the zombies were bickering as they wheeled a mop bucket up their walkway. The stench of lemon disinfectant filled the air, masking their usual earthy rot. One zombie gagged as he wrung out a mop.

“Too clean. This is unnatural.”

“We promised the block party committee we’d go all out this year, Carl.” His wife heaved a bundle of spray bottles onto the lawn, arranging them like bouquets. Labels blared words like Anti-Bacterial and Fresh Linen. Passing children moaned with theatrical horror.

From the Johnsons’ yard you could hear the yelp and clatter of furniture being dragged. The werewolves were setting out a dinner table. Not broken, not clawed, not chewed. Entirely intact. Mrs. Johnson dabbed at the polished surface with a cloth, her tail flicking.

“I hate it,” she muttered.

“Exactly,” said her husband, grinning through sharp teeth. “It’s hideous. Imagine actually sitting down to eat like civilized people.”

Finally, young Timmy Ghoul drifted down the sidewalk carrying his contribution: a towering stack of IRS forms, wobbling precariously in his gray hands. He slapped them down on the curb for trick-or-treaters to pick through.

“W-2s on the left, 1099s on the right,” he announced proudly. “And if anyone asks about deductions, I’ll materialize out of the bush and wail about audits.”

A cheer rose from the street. The decorations were done. The monsters admired one another’s work, as the scents of bleach, paperwork, and furniture polish wafted through the neighborhood.

Gloomwillow Lane was ready for the scariest night of the year—the night they pretended to be human.