It was the summer of 1986, and in the sleepy town of Ridgewater, Halloween had come early. The kids of Lincoln High were excited for the annual Halloween bash at old Stanton's Farm, a tradition that had outlasted generations.
But this year, things felt different—darker.
The stories about the Midnight Slasher had resurfaced. Decades ago, back in the late '50s, people said a deranged butcher named Hank Wilkes snapped on Halloween night, carving up a group of teenagers who had dared him to face his fears in the abandoned meat-packing plant outside of town. After he disappeared, the killings stopped, but every few years, someone claimed to see a figure stalking the woods, carrying a rusted cleaver and wearing a grotesque mask.
But in 1986, no one believed in ghost stories anymore.
Becky, Jason, and their friends piled into Jason’s beat-up van, blasting rock music as they made their way to the party. They were the "cool kids" of Lincoln High—the type who scoffed at anything remotely superstitious. When Becky's younger brother Timmy tried to warn them about the Midnight Slasher, they laughed him off. “Don’t be a dweeb,” Jason said, flicking Timmy’s forehead. “That’s just old folks trying to scare us.”
As the sun set, they arrived at Stanton’s Farm, now filled with other high schoolers in cheap costumes, drinking and dancing by a roaring bonfire. The night was electric with the smell of burning leaves and pumpkin spice. No one noticed the strange figure standing far off by the treeline—until Becky saw him.
At first, she thought it was just one of the guys, pulling a prank in a mask and old butcher’s apron. But something about the way he moved—so slow, so deliberate—sent a chill down her spine. His cleaver gleamed in the firelight, sharp as the night air.
She grabbed Jason. “Do you see that?” she whispered.
“Chill out, Becky. It’s just someone messing with you.”
But when she looked back, the figure was gone.
Then, the lights went out. The party was plunged into darkness, lit only by the dimming glow of the bonfire. Laughter turned to murmurs of confusion. Somewhere in the distance, a scream pierced the air.
Jason, still in denial, led the group to check it out. They found the source—a girl from their school, her body slumped by a tree, her neck sliced clean across. The pig mask was lying next to her, but whoever had worn it was gone.
Panic broke out. Kids ran in every direction, stumbling through the dark woods. Jason grabbed Becky’s hand, pulling her through the maze of trees. The killer, whoever he was, moved silently in the shadows, picking them off one by one with his bloody cleaver. Every time they thought they were safe, he appeared, his mask now firmly on, his heavy breathing audible through the thick leather.
“It’s him,” Becky whispered, terrified. “The Midnight Slasher.”
Jason didn’t want to believe it, but the bodies piling up proved otherwise. The legend was real. Hank Wilkes—or whatever was left of him—had returned, brought back to finish what he started.
As they stumbled through the woods, they found themselves at the old meat-packing plant, its rusted doors creaking open as if inviting them inside. With no other choice, they entered, hoping to hide. But inside, it was worse—hooks dangled from the ceiling, the walls covered in long-dried bloodstains. The stench of death filled the air.
Then they heard it—a slow, rhythmic dragging sound. The cleaver scraping against the metal walls.
He was inside.
Becky and Jason ran, but the Slasher was relentless. His cleaver swung through the air, catching Jason’s arm. He screamed, falling to the ground as blood gushed from the wound.
Becky grabbed a rusted meat hook from the wall and stood her ground. The Slasher’s hollow eyes locked onto her, and for a moment, she saw something in them—a flicker of recognition, a hint of humanity buried beneath the monster. But then he lunged.
With a desperate scream, Becky swung the hook. It caught him in the chest, and the Slasher let out an inhuman howl, staggering backward. She didn’t wait to see if it was enoug h—she grabbed Jason and ran out of the plant, the Slasher’s guttural breathing echoing behind them.
They made it back to town just as the clock struck midnight. The killings stopped, but the legend lived on.
Every Halloween after that, Becky swore she could hear the distant sound of a cleaver scraping against metal, waiting for the Midnight Slasher to return.
