The Great Halloween Knockoff Massacre
The haunted house party was supposed to be a low-stress affair. Apple cider, fog machines, a costume contest with a rigged vote, and some light-hearted forest-themed horror. That’s what Fin had been told.
Which is why he’d put actual effort into designing their costumes.
Not store-bought, not mass-produced, no. These were hand-designed, iridescent-scaled masterpieces, complete with detailed dogwood blossoms that looked like they grew right out of the fabric.
Fin's was shimmering teal. Andy’s—deep purple, with a gleam like enchanted dusk. And both had tails that swished just right when they walked. Fin had checked. In the mirror. Multiple times.
“People are going to lose their minds,” Fin said, adjusting Andy’s hood and smoothing the blossoms across his shoulders. “In a good way.”
Andy, ever the calm center in Fin’s chaotic storm of perfectionism, just smiled and kissed Fin’s nose. “Let them.”
Which is why he’d put actual effort into designing their costumes.
Not store-bought, not mass-produced, no. These were hand-designed, iridescent-scaled masterpieces, complete with detailed dogwood blossoms that looked like they grew right out of the fabric.
Fin's was shimmering teal. Andy’s—deep purple, with a gleam like enchanted dusk. And both had tails that swished just right when they walked. Fin had checked. In the mirror. Multiple times.
“People are going to lose their minds,” Fin said, adjusting Andy’s hood and smoothing the blossoms across his shoulders. “In a good way.”
Andy, ever the calm center in Fin’s chaotic storm of perfectionism, just smiled and kissed Fin’s nose. “Let them.”
The haunted house was fine. A little basic. Too many skeleton props with red LEDs in their eyes. But the forest maze outside? That was what Fin had really been looking forward to.
They entered hand-in-hand through a wooden archway that read THIS WAY TO TERROR!, though the glittery bat stickers kind of ruined the mood.
The deeper they went, the more the atmosphere shifted. The air grew colder, damper. Twisting trees loomed above, their bark blotched with black rot. Peach trees, Fin realized—though the fruit hanging from them was shriveled and oozing.
And at the center of the clearing… a stone well, moss-slick and choking with wilted camellia flowers. The petals looked like they’d once been white, now browned and curling. An eerie orange glow filtered through the fog—like moonlight strained through spoiled cider.
Fin stopped.
Andy stopped too. “This doesn’t feel like party territory anymore.”
That’s when they heard it. A sort of slorp-thump. Followed by another.
Then another. Behind them. To the left. From the trees.
They turned—and froze.
Zombies.
Not movie-grade latex zombies. These were... ghouls. Wrongness incarnate. Skin like curdled cheese, eyes glowing with petty malice, and mouths twisted in a perpetual state of “uhhhhhhgh.” And worse--
They were wearing knockoff versions of Fin’s dragon designs.
Andy squinted. “Are those—”
“Oh HELL no,” Fin snapped, taking a step forward. “They did not copy our costumes.”
They had.
Poorly.
One of the ghouls gurgled something that sounded suspiciously like “rrrrrip-offffff.”
That was it.
Fin reached into the pouch sewn discreetly into his costume (he thought of everything) and pulled out a small silver pendant: two interlocked triangles—the Magen David.
He whispered a prayer, the Hebrew rolling off his tongue like flame.
“ברוך אתה ה' אלוהינו מלך העולם, המציל מן הרעה.”
Blessed are You, Lord our G-d, Sovereign of the universe, who delivers from evil.
The air shimmered. A gust of wind whipped through the clearing—and in Fin’s outstretched palm, salt began to appear. Thick, glittering, like ground moonstone.
Andy grinned. “Gods, I love you.”
Fin threw him a handful. “Then help me salt these bitches.”
Andy’s throw was perfect—a heavy arc that caught one of the ghouls square in the chest. It shrieked, flailing as smoke rose from its hideous onesie.
Fin spun and cast another wave of salt with dramatic flair. “YOU DARE plagiarize my aesthetic?! BEGONE THOTS.”
One by one, the knockoff-zombies hissed, howled, and disintegrated into piles of smoldering shame and tulle. One tried to crawl away, but Fin yeeted a final handful of salt at its poorly aligned horns. “Originality or death!” he shouted.
Within moments, the clearing was quiet again. The well stopped glowing. The rotten peaches stopped dripping. Even the fog seemed to slink off, embarrassed.
Fin brushed salt dust from his palms. “That was deeply satisfying.”
Andy stepped closer, wrapping an arm around his waist. “You are so sexy.”
Fin tilted his head. “You mean in general, or specifically when I banish unlicensed design theft?”
“Yes.”
They walked back to the party like nothing happened. Fin reapplied a few blossoms that had fallen off in the chaos, muttering about “crisis couture.”
Andy offered to carry him the last hundred yards, but Fin refused. His tail swished too perfectly to go to waste.
When they arrived back at the crowd, people turned to stare.
Not in horror. Not in fear.
In envy.
Because Fin and Andy looked incredible. They were glowing with post-battle smugness and lightly dusted with holy salt. And everyone else?
Witches, vampires, cowboys, vague anime references, several slutty banshees. Nothing original. But nothing duplicated them.
And none of the zombies returned.
“Do you think anyone else noticed the ghoul clones?” Andy asked, snagging a couple of gluten-free cider donuts.
Fin licked icing from his finger. “Please. They were too busy voting for ‘Sexy Viking Pikachu’ in the costume contest.”
Andy made a face. “It’s a crime.”
“It is,” Fin said. “But at least it’s not copyright infringement.”
They found a bench near the dance floor, nestled beneath a plastic skeleton bride and some questionable fake cobwebs. Andy leaned in, brushing a kiss to Fin’s temple.
“You saved Halloween.”
Fin smirked. “That’s what husbands are for.”
Andy’s grin widened. “So... next year? Matching phoenix armor?”
Fin’s eyes gleamed. “With real feathers and lighting effects.”
“Gods help the undead.”
